


A Very Johnlock Christmas

by Avath



Series: A Very Johnlock Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1x3 a day, Advent Calendar, Angst, Christmas!, Ficlets, Fluff, I'm really sorry about chapter 19, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 72
Words: 63,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avath/pseuds/Avath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>December 1.</p>
<p>Golfechoromeo, Anne and me have all come up with a dozen or so prompts each. I wrote them all down on pieces of paper and each day I draw one out of a bowl. I've posted these on fanfiction.net before but I've been excited to try out ao3 for a while so I thought this would be a good time. I'll be posting in both places from now on.</p>
<p>Today's was Sleigh Ride. We hope you enjoy as we festively Johnlock.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Sleigh Ride - Avath

**Author's Note:**

> December 1.
> 
> Golfechoromeo, Anne and me have all come up with a dozen or so prompts each. I wrote them all down on pieces of paper and each day I draw one out of a bowl. I've posted these on fanfiction.net before but I've been excited to try out ao3 for a while so I thought this would be a good time. I'll be posting in both places from now on.
> 
> Today's was Sleigh Ride. We hope you enjoy as we festively Johnlock.

"Yoo hoo!," Mrs. Hudson was calling, waving at Sherlock and John being pulled in a sleigh by two Clydesdale horses. They had woken up in the Holmes' house in Surrey with lovely weather; bright sunshine over newly fallen snow. It was Christmas Eve day and Mycroft was arriving later with Greg, who had finally divorced his wife, and poor Molly, who had softly told John she'd had no plans when he had politely asked. If this went well and everyone got along, John hoped this could be an annual trip. He hadn't even known this house (which John privately called a manor in his head) existed until Sherlock had gotten a visit from Mycroft one day the previous May announcing that their mother had died in the night.

The two Holmes' brothers had been ashen and deflated, but had rallied as fast as only two men who were driven by their intellect and not their feelings could. John had accompanied Sherlock, as he always did, when it was time for the funeral. He had been in awe of the enormous house with the open fireplaces and giant windows looking over a giant garden and a lake in the distance.

"Must be beautiful here at Christmas," he'd said as he imagined the place covered in snow and smelling of cinnamon.

"Yes," Sherlock had replied him. It always had been.

The idea had evolved from that, and now here they were. It was far below freezing and still it had been only through the combined efforts of John and Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock had put on a hat. He was glad of it now; the horses, Admiral and Duke, were pulling them quite fast and the air was cold around his cheeks and ears. John looked over at him, his blue eyes sparkling from laughter.

"Your cheeks are so nice and rosy!" he said through his laughing.

_Nice?_ Sherlock thought. His cheeks became even rosier.

John suddenly stood up and shouted, "Giddy-up! Giddy-up! Giddy-up! Let's go!"

Sherlock took a hold of John's hand and pulled him back to sitting. It was highly unsafe to stand in the sleigh when they were going at the speed they were, but he laughed at his adrenaline-seeking friend who thought his cheeks were nice.

After a few minutes of riding the trail that led around the trail, John realised they were still holding hands. Sherlock had been keenly aware and had been calculating how long he could get away with it. That time had long since passed. John turned his head to find Sherlock already looking at him.

"I like knowing where you grew up," he said.

"I like you knowing," Sherlock said.

John smiled and after a few seconds, Sherlock smiled too. _John didn't let go_ , he thought. His hand had felt very cold before despite being clad in a thick glove, but now it was sweating. _Nerves? Sentiment._

"John, I don't want to be just holding your hand," he said quietly, far too quietly to be heard over the rush of wind.

"Pardon?" John said loudly.

"I said," Sherlock said with a frustrated tone. He yanked John closer and spoke into his ear. "I don't want to be just holding your hand."

John didn't understand and turned his head, his nose bumping into Sherlock's and grazing over his cheek.

Sherlock's lips parted and he exhaled in a puff. There was no mistaking the tension between them. Not this time. Not now, here on this private Sleigh Ride where no one else could see them.

John kissed Sherlock's cheek and held his lips there for one, two, three seconds before he pulled away. Sherlock made an impatient noise and turned his head. He pressed their lips together and John's eyes widened for a moment before they closed. It was the happiest feeling no money in the world could buy.

And from then on it had been the two of them together. There had been no official announcement. Mrs. Hudson had seen the change in her boys before they even got off the sleigh. Mycroft had deduced it instantly when he arrived. Greg and Molly had been made to blush horribly and stammer out their congratulations when John had kissed Sherlock at dinner. Molly had excused herself to shed a few tears in the bathroom, but had been heartened with a text from a man at work. Greg ended up having one too many servings of mulled wine and had pressed Mycroft up against a hall wall and snogged him breathless when they had been going back to their rooms.

It was weeks before Sherlock realised that Mycroft and Greg had started seeing each other and it was only because for those weeks the only thing Sherlock saw was John. The bitter sting of his brother managing to keep such a juicy secret from him was only eased by thinking back to that one freezing cold sleigh ride with his John. It was a wonderful thing that he remembered all through his life.


	2. Sleigh Ride - Golfechoromeo

Sherlock was grumbling and sulking in the back seat of the cab, his arms crossed and his body angled toward the window. As he watched the snow fall delicately from the sky above, Sherlock heard John's impatient sigh next to him.

"Sherlock," he said. "You have to go tonight and just make an appearance."

"Why?" Sherlock said, still watching the winter scene outside, friends waving to each other on the sidewalk, as he and John made their way through the streets of London in the cab.

"Because it's Molly's birthday party," John said for what felt like the fiftieth time that day.

"It's snowing," Sherlock said, partially hoping to distract John enough to change the subject and also that this would show just how much he did not care about this event.

With a roll of his eyes, knowing exactly what Sherlock was doing, John slid a bit closer in the back seat of the cab. The driver turned the radio up, the Christmas music now reaching the ears of the two passengers in the back seat.

"Come sit with me," John said, trying to coax Sherlock out of his mood enough that he would not be entirely unpleasant for the entire evening. Perhaps a quick snog in the back of the cab would help.

With a frustrated huff of an exhale, Sherlock slid closer to John, the two of them practically snuggled up and cozy in the back seat.

"Ten minutes?" Sherlock asked, knowing that John would understand.

"We're going to have to stay longer than that, I'm afraid," John said as he watched the snow whirl and dance around beautifully outside of the cab as they moved through snowy London on their way to the party. "I'll need a coffee and a slice of Mrs. Hudson's pumpkin pie."

"And then home after that?" Sherlock asked, sounding hopeful and less sullen than he had the entire ride.

"Yes," John whispered as he wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist as the two of them silently spent the rest of the cab ride admiring the lovely weather and wonderland of snow around them.


	3. Sleigh Ride - Anne

"Would you like to take John on a sleigh ride?" Mrs. Holmes asked in a pointed voice. Sherlock, her fully grown son, was acting even more like a child than usual, and she had every reason to believe that it was related to this John Watson character he had dragged home for Christmas. Well, that and the sly comments that Mycroft was constantly prodding the detective with on the subject of John's presence.

"Mother, you can take him on one yourself, if you're so keen," Sherlock snapped resolutely. He was still pouting, face long and uninterested, pale eyes smouldering with dramatic discontent. His mother sighed, dark hair perfectly pulled back, twisting her wedding ring in thought. It was one of her idiosyncrasies; Sherlock had actually missed the unobtrusive action in the months since he had last seen her. John, sitting comfortably by the fire in his oatmeal jumper, looked up at that, surprisingly relaxed in the Holmes estate even though they had only arrived a few days prior. Maybe it was because he was accustomed to Sherlock's bad behaviour and knew that he had the upper hand as far as getting the unruly man to behave himself was concerned.

"A sleigh ride sounds lovely." The soldier uncrossed his legs and came to standing, playfully intent on breaking Sherlock out of his mood before the hour elapsed. "Sherlock?"

The question hung in the air, and had it been posed by anyone else, Sherlock would have had no trouble swatting it aside with another snide remark. However, he had always had trouble snipping at John. He glared up at his mother first and then at his friend (who he was fairly certain knew exactly what he was doing), before he passed a hand through his wild curls in exasperation. With a melodramatic flurry of limbs, he picked himself up from his seat and headed towards the door, donning his hat in a single motion, leather gloves still coupled in his right hand.

"John, you coming?"


	4. The Christmas Song - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 2
> 
> Hello! Today's prompt-drawing turned up another Christmas carol; The Christmas Song.

The crackling of fire and the slightly tangy smell of smoke filled the living room. John had been comfortably asleep on his chair but Sherlock had woken him with an excited outburst. Now the air was filled with whirling white of a very Holmes' Christmas, and John was laughing as it fell around him. He put his arms out to the side and spun around, already covered with it and wet so there was no point in trying to protect himself.

"Stop it, John," Sherlock said.

"Why should I?" John replied, still laughing but now standing still.

"Because you're pretending the fire extinguisher foam is snow and it's ridiculous," Sherlock replied.

"Some good ought to come out of you setting fire to the kitchen," John said, bursting out in laughter anew at the affronted look on Sherlock's face. "And let me tell you another thing; I'm not cleaning it up. You can do that all on your own."

And so, after a shower and change of clothes, John sat with a bag of spiced nuts on his chair that he'd turn to face the kitchen. "You missed a spot," he called out every so often as Sherlock stood scrubbing the foam off all the surfaces of the kitchen wearing his yellow protective gloves and his goggles.

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Sherlock snapped.

John giggled to himself and thought that the first snowfall of the year had exceeded his expectations.


	5. The Christmas Song - Golfechoromeo

Of all the times for the power and heating to go off in the flat, Christmas Eve was not the ideal day. Sherlock and John were sitting in their respective arm chairs in front of the fireplace, trying to absorb as much of the heat and warmth as possible. Sherlock was curled up in his chair, his knees tucked under his chin, and his entire body enveloped by his Belstaff coat. John, meanwhile, was trying to keep himself warm by layering himself with about four jumpers under his jacket.

"It's bloody freezing," he said, his words coming out through chattering teeth.

"Then do something to distract yourself," Sherlock said, focusing on the flames of the fire.

John looked scandalised. _Sherlock_ of all people was telling him to find a distraction? The man who was often times more bored than he wasn't?

"Fine," John said as he got up from the chair in a huff. He knew his mind was playing tricks on him and that the flat wasn't /really/ so cold that he could see his own breath on his exhale, but for a moment, he was almost sure of it. He rummaged around the kitchen until he found what he was looking for and came back out holding a little baking tray that was covered in foil.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the object with suspicion.

"Mrs. Hudson brought over those chestnuts the other day so I thought we'd roast them," John said.

"Oh, John," Sherlock said in a voice that was borderline pitying.

Determined not to let Sherlock's tone get to him, John busied himself over the fire, trying to remember how his family had done this back when he was a boy. He could feel the cold rawness of his nose and sniffled a bit as it began to warm in front of the flames. Once the chestnuts in the pan were settled and he could let them roast on their own, John returned to his chair, feeling the intense stare of Sherlock's eyes on him.

"What?" John spat as he turned his head and looked back at Sherlock, expecting to see a look of coldness or condescension. When he saw that Sherlock was looking at him with soft and curious eyes, he was taken aback.

"What was it you just did?" Sherlock asked.

John blinked a few times, unsure if Sherlock was joking or not. "I... I'm roasting chestnuts," he said simply, feeling a little foolish.

Sherlock nodded. "Is that one of those Christmas traditions that people do?"

The corner of John's mouth picked up in a smile. "Yes, Sherlock. You've never done this before?"

Sherlock shook his head and looked back at the fire flickering around the foil covered pan, deep in thought.

"I can show you how to check to see when they're finished," John said lightly. 'If you're interested."

He could tell instantly that Sherlock was very much interested and fascinated by the pan and foil contraption that was cooking these chestnuts, but he was trying to stay as aloof as possible. _The git probably wants to know the science behind it but hates that I know how to do it and he doesn't._

"Alright," Sherlock said, forcing a tone of bored compliance into his voice that John knew all too well was fabricated. "I suppose we need some way to distract ourselves form the cold."

John chuckled and shook his head as he stood up and walked to Sherlock's chair, helping him up and bringing him to the fire.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said with a soft laugh as Sherlock began to poke and observe the chestnuts roasting on the fire.


	6. The Christmas Song - Anne

"Do not." Sherlock's face was set; he was not going to budge on this particular topic of discourse, despite what the slightly older boy was trying to convince him of. John's face was a bit more red than his own was anyway. John lost his temper easily and Sherlock could almost see him internally cursing the fact that he had gotten into an argument with a five year old at the lofty age of seven. Especially right before bedtime. He was not above staying up all night to prove his point if he really had to, although Sherlock didn't want him to do that.

"Do too," John barked immediately. One of his hands clenched into a fist, but as John had never actually hit Sherlock before, the threat was empty.

"Do not. John, don't you think if reindeer knew how to fly, we would have proof? I'm rejecting your analysis based on the fact that there are no pictures, no recordings… And I've certainly never read about it." He was confused by John's insistence. Didn't his friend see how reasonable his argument was? Didn't John understand that the idea that reindeer could fly was preposterous?

"Sher, Santa is proof!"

"Santa? I don't believe in any of that." At Sherlock's surprisingly bold statement, John's face fell and he lost all of his previous venom.

"You gotta believe in Santa," he insisted gently, settling himself down onto Sherlock's bed and tugging his younger friend down with him so they could cuddle.

"Why?" Sherlock asked softly, relieved that his John was no longer upset with him. A hand ran through Sherlock's hair soothingly as if to emphasize that all was forgiven and gentle fingers tugged on a rogue curl tenderly at his question. John's eyebrows were furrowed in careful thought.

"I don't know why. It's just one of those things." Sherlock yawned, and looked over to John with heavy eyes, only to see that the other boy had caught his affliction. He nuzzled up against the warm chest, wrapping one of his arms around John's waist possessively with the clear intent to use the other boy as his pillow.

"Hm… I'll think about it." He wasn't going to think about it, but he certainly didn't want to argue anymore.

His sleep was deep and sweet, which was why he was surprised to be roused in the middle of the night by a loud sound. Sherlock shook John awake, pale eyes wide with excitement. He ignored the shocked expression on his best friend's face, and planted a kiss on John's cheek in childlike affection.

"John, I think I heard the reindeer!"


	7. We Wish You A Merry Christmas - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 3.
> 
> Apparently the Christmas Carols want to be written about because today's draw was We Wish You A Merry Christmas.

"We with you a Merry Chrithmath, we with you a Merry Crithmath, we _with_ you Merry Chrith _mas_ and a happy new year!" Sherlock sang.

John looked at him critically. "No," he said.

Sherlock picked up a discarded sock and threw it into the nearest wall. "Why can't I do it, John? I jutht want to thing it properly," Sherlock said.

"Just say _S_ , Sherlock," John said, not understand how his friend who knew _everything_ didn't know how to pronounce that letter.

"Eth," Sherlock said. He looked hopefully at John.

"No _. Ess_ ," John said loudly.

"Eth! _Eth! ETH!"_ Sherlock shouted. Tears welled up in his eyes from the frustration. How was he ever supposed to go back to school to show everyone how clever he was when he couldn't speak properly?

"No, don't cry," John whined, pushing himself quickly to his skinny little boy legs with bruises on the knees.

"I'm not!" Sherlock said defiantly as John stopped in front of him, looking helpless. He blinked hard and pouted. He hated being useless in front of John. He was so proud that a boy three years his senior wanted to be his friend. Other eight year olds just had their eight year old friends. Sherlock had John so it didn't matter that none of the other children wanted to play with him.

"You are!" John said back. This time he knew he was right. There was nothing more frustrating in the world than being constantly outsmarted by an _eight year old_. This time _he was right_.

"I'm not!" Sherlock said, ending his sentence with an enormous sniff and his forehead crinkling helplessly as shameful tears spilled down his cheeks.

 _What would mummy do?_ John thought, watching his best friend in the world crying because he was failing at something for maybe the first time in his entire life. He knelt down and patted Sherlock's dark curls. "There, there, Sherlock," John said.

To Sherlock's horror, he started to sniff louder and making odd noises in his throat.

"There, _there,_ Sherlock," John said with more feeling, hoping that it would help that time.

"Thtop it!" Sherlock said, swiping at John's hand. "Thtop it! Thtop it!"

John backed away and said nothing. Sherlock looked up at him angrily and he didn't like it, so he wandered to the bed and sat down on it to look out the window instead.

Sherlock's insides ached. He had liked it when John had stroked his head, even though you were supposed to do that with dogs and not people. No one had ever tried to comfort him before. It had confused him; wasn't he supposed to be punished because he did something bad? But John wasn't punishing him. He was trying to teach him how to speak better. Like a friend.

John was his friend.

Sherlock carefully walked over to his bed and sat down next to John.

"John, I'm thorry. Can I thtill come thleep over at your houthe nextht week?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"Yes," John said.

"Okay," Sherlock said.

"Mummy said she'll make figgy pudding," John said.

"What'th that?" Sherlock asked.

"Dunno. I think she meant to say chocolate pudding," John said.

"Oh." Sherlock was quiet for a few seconds before he spoke again. "We wi _th_ you Merry Chri _th_ ma _th_ ," he said. He nudged John.

"That much better," John said, even though he knew he wasn't allowed to lie.


	8. We Wish You A Merry Christmas - Golfechoromeo

John was trying not to be miserable and sullen He had known exactly what he was getting himself into when he had been asked if he would don his army fatigues again and go back to Afghanistan to help. There had been an influx of incidents and a shortage of doctors and, as Mycroft had described it to him, the RAMC needed all hands on deck.

But John had not expected to be away for so long. He had thought it would only take three months before more doctors arrived and he could return home. As November drew to a close and John was still at the base, however, it became clear that he would still be there through December. He would miss Christmas.

Everyone had kept in touch with him, sending him letters and care packages, but no one was as dutiful and consistent as Sherlock who sent John the newspaper each day along with biscuits and jam and a letter going into elaborate detail about what had happened that day, what his cases were like, what happened in the flat, everything.

John was trying to keep his spirits up on Christmas Eve, despite feeling more alone than he had in years. He was not expecting anything that Christmas in the post, primarily because he knew it was going to be nearly impossible for anything to get to the base that day.

But not impossible for a Holmes.

Mycroft must have pulled strings and used his power to ensure that the post was delivered on Christmas Eve because a small parcel addressed to John arrived to him around mid-afternoon.

With trembling hands, he gingerly opened the package and could not help but laugh as the tears welled up in his eyes. A group picture with everyone wearing Santa hats. Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Greg, Molly, and _Sherlock_. Sherlock in a Santa hat. And there, along with the picture, was a Santa hat of his own. John flipped the picture over and warmed as he read the message in Sherlock's scrawl:

"From all of us here at Baker Street, we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year. Come home soon, John."


	9. We Wish You A Merry Christmas - Anne

John had been slaving away in the kitchen all day. He wasn't particularly well endowed as far as the culinary arts were concerned, but figgy pudding was traditional and Sherlock had never had it before. Therefore, it once again fell to him to fill the gaps in his best friend's childhood; that was his responsibility as the more experienced one. Of course, it was extremely difficult to cook much of anything in the tiny, under-stocked dorm kitchen. And he had realized, to his dismay, that buying the required ingredients for the aforementioned pudding had easily eaten up the money he was supposed to be spending on food when the dining halls were closed for the holiday. Brilliant. Sherlock often remarked on the pointlessness of eating; the posh, Cambridge twat had never been forced to go a day without food though. Despite his complaints about Sherlock Holmes, John was going to miss the boy dreadfully. He fully realized that his efforts to convince himself that he would enjoy being alone for Christmas when everyone else in his dorm went home to be with family were in vain. His current plan was to celebrate the birth of Christ with a bottle of whiskey.

Still, Sherlock had promised that he would make the trek to where John was studying at Queen Mary's before he went home to what he casually referred to as "the estate," which John was grateful for. He was getting tired of explaining to his friends just why he needed to go to Cambridge to see a friend he had only met a few months prior at a rowdy party every few days.

"Bags packed?" Sherlock chirped happily, barging into the kitchen in his usual unannounced fashion.

"I'm making you pudding, you git. Give me a minute." John reached for an oven mitt, awkwardly working his concoction from the heat. It didn't exactly look like how his mother's did every year, but John beamed with pride nonetheless. He set the tray on the table, only then letting Sherlock's question sink in.

"Sher, I'm not going home, remember?"

"You mentioned as much." Sherlock paused, exhibiting micro-hesitation that he knew no one would notice except the boy before him. "I thought it was fairly obvious that you would be coming home with me." He walked over to where John was standing to inspect what had emerged from the oven, sniffing cautiously. He was instantly appeased by a sweet smell.

"You're serious?" John couldn't help but smile, mostly because Sherlock's insides were clearly writhing with doubt, although the pompous arse would never admit it.

"Obviously."

John knew he would regret it later, but he couldn't help himself. He couldn't bloody help himself anymore. And that was why he kissed Sherlock bloody Holmes, right on the bloody lips. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin, far from accustomed to such behavior, but it took less than a moment for his gangly limbs to melt against John's body. The kiss broke, and after another small pause, (Sherlock had to calculate the technical aspects of his intended response), Sherlock threw his arms around John in a hug.

"Happy Christmas, John Watson."


	10. Last Minute Shopping - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 4
> 
> Today's draw ended up not being a Christmas Carol! Instead we wrote about Last Minute Shopping.

Sherlock was out in the fray. He didn't want to be there. God, no. He'd rather be spending Christmas with Mycroft than out in London the evening before Christmas. There were so many people jostling for _things_ that would soon be forgotten in the pile of other _things_ that people inevitably owned, and they all seemed to somehow be touching him and breathing near him. The amount of people who had poor oral hygiene appalled him. How could John care so much about people when they were like this? How could he have chosen a profession that catered to them? Sherlock was disgusted.

And yet, he was out in the midst of them and the most horrible time of the year. Because, while John cared for people, Sherlock cared for John. And John should have a Christmas gift. A proper one.

Sherlock looked and looked. He was out for hours, ignoring John's plaintive texts about how hungry he was and to bring home take-away.  
Finally, when the smell and bustle of what seemed the stupidest people London had to offer, Sherlock lost his temper and grabbed the first thing he laid eyes on. That they landed on a pair of plain black socks with questionable quality didn't matter. He paid for them, had them wrapped and went home with Chinese.

The following morning they woke up to the sounds of Mrs. Hudson humming in the kitchen while cooking breakfast. "Best get up, Sherlo-" John said, being interrupted by a yawn. Sherlock shuffled out of bed with a knot in his stomach. He knew the socks weren't good. He hadn't planned to give John socks.

The three of them ate breakfast and enjoyed each other's company for a few cups of tea before they gathered in the living room. Mrs. Hudson, with a complaint of her hip, sat down in Sherlock's chair and had her shoulders promptly covered with a blanket. "Thank you, Sherlock, dear," she said. She looked expectantly up at him, a cross frown creasing her forehead when he didn't leap into action. She knew he knew that she wanted him to start handing out the presents. She was excited for it.

Sherlock caved in when she pulled in a breath to start nagging at him and swiftly pulled gifts from under the tree, throwing them to their receivers. Mrs. Hudson had wrapped their gifts in gold paper. Sherlock's was a book about bees. He was so thankful that he kissed her on the forehead. John got a new cardigan, which he immediately put on in delight. As for Mrs. Hudson, she got an expensive pair of earrings from Sherlock and from John a Polaroid camera.

"Oh, it reminds me of-" Mrs. Hudson began.

"Oh if you're going to say your youth, please spare us the sentimentality. I can't bear any more of it today," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock," John said in his warning tone.

"What I was saying," Mrs. Hudson continued, "it reminds me of that song. You shake it like a Polaroid picture."

John had a good giggle and promised to look that song up for her later.

Sherlock swiftly moved on from the pop-culture nonsense and picked the two last gifts from under the tree. He tore his box open impatiently, finding new protective goggles and gloves. "Oh, _John_ ," he whispered. He hadn't been able to do any exciting experiments since he'd singed a hole in his last pair of gloves. Well, and put a bullet through the goggles when he had been particularly bored and had needed a target.

"Just mind you don't get overexcited and blow things up," John said with a smile, pleased with the reaction. He turned his attention to the little package in his hand and tore it open. Sherlock's emotions shifted fast from pleasure to guilt. The look of confusion on John's face was apparent. "Cheers, Sherlock," John said, after a few beats had passed. "Running around with you is an awful wear on my socks, how did you know?" John asked. "Clever deductions as usual," he added with a shake of his head.

The guilt roiled Sherlock's stomach and he could only nod in reply. Mrs. Hudson looked thunderous.

" _Sherlock_ , that's not what-" she started, but she was again interrupted by Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson, shall I get you another cup of tea?" Sherlock said, already striding out to the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson glared after him and quietly got off the chair and started going through boxes, and drawers. John watched in alarm. Had they both had a few drinks behind his back or what was going on?

"Aha!" Mrs. Hudson called out, finding what she was after stuffed beneath a cushion on the couch. "Here, John. Here's your real gift," she said, wielding two knitting needles, a ball of blue yarn and... a sleeve?

"No!" Sherlock called, storming into the living room again and attempting to grab what Mrs. Hudson was holding. But, she was too fast and threw it to John who caught it and looked at it with even more confusion than the socks.

"Tell him," Mrs. Hudson said sternly.

Sherlock wanted to sink through the earth. He wanted to throw himself off a building. He wanted to be eaten alive by otters.

"I was going to knit you a new sweater. I wasn't-" Sherlock swallowed hard. "I wasn't very good at it," he finished, turning his nose into the air as if the confession hurt his pride.

"I've been teaching him. On the _sly_ , as they say," Mrs. Hudson said, looking so pleased she might start clapping her hands.

So it was a sleeve. A sleeve with rather a lot of holes in it and no discernible pattern. "Right," John said, keenly feeling Sherlock's embarrassment. "I think it's excellent. Marvellous for when my left arm aches. It does sometimes you know. From the gunshot. Warmth helps. Thank you, Sherlock." John got up and kissed Sherlock the cheek. It was warmer than usual against his lips and he looked up to see Sherlock blushing.

Sherlock could see John was about to comment so he wrapped his arms around his veteran soldier and pulled him in to a tight hug. John laughed softly and let himself be silenced.

Mrs. Hudson was rather pleased that that was her first photo with her new camera.


	11. Last Minute Shopping - Golfechoromeo

"Sherlock, slow _down_!" Mrs. Hudson called as Sherlock began to weave in and out of the throng of people on the sidewalk. She shook her head as she watched his tall frame go from window to window as he searched for a gift.

But Sherlock was a man on a mission. He he spent the previous two weeks searching for a gift for John and thought he had come up with something that was acceptable, but Mrs. Hudson firmly put her foot down and explained that a jar of jam and a carton of milk was not enough, especially for someone like John. She said it was thoughtful, but he just needed to do a little bit more.

Mrs. Hudson steered him into a clothing store and suggested that perhaps Sherlock buy him a new jumper.

"No," Sherlock said firmly. "John is very particular about his jumpers. He prefers them to be of a certain softness and comfort and I am unfamiliar with the criteria in which he chooses one."

After that, Mrs. Hudson suggested that perhaps Sherlock buy John a new watch.

"No," Sherlock said in a huff as they stood in the jeweller's store in front of a glass case filled with expensive and top of the line watches. "John wears the watch that his father gave to him that was passed down from his grandfather and great-grandfather. These watches here are hideous and have no emotional value compared to the value that watch holds for John." He

Mrs. Hudson bit her tongue and kept her comment that a watch from Sherlock would hold just as much emotional value if not more, to herself. He pulled her out of the store, leaving the jeweller looking highly offended.

As they walked down the street, Mrs. Hudson suggested that perhaps Sherlock could buy John a new version of Cluedo since Sherlock had ruined theirs when he stabbed it to the wall above the mantle.

"No," Sherlock said emphatically. "John would promptly throw it out the window. He refuses to even entertain the idea of playing that again."

As they walked by Tesco's on their way home, Mrs. Hudson said, with exasperation, "You could always just buy him more jam or something else."

The next day, on Christmas, John opened the enormous package that Sherlock had wrapped and given to him. He looked up and smiled, lost for words. He was truly touched by Sherlock's gift of a fifty-two jars of jam, one for each week of the year with a note inside of the card, saying that Sherlock would buy the milk once a month.


	12. Last Minute Shopping - Anne

Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson. All of their friends knew it, John knew it, and Sherlock accepted the unfortunate fact with the appropriate grace. He still thought of his relationship with John as a bit unfortunate, because it ruined his flawless reputation as a heartless machine, as well as because it certainly distracted him from his work. Well, that was what he told anyone who asked. However, the real reason he still used the word unfortunate was because it seemed like the most perfectly contradictory sentiment to use when pondering what he actually considered to be the greatest development in his generally lonely life.

That being said, Sherlock was still terrible at the things most people had down easily… He didn't understand the importance of holidays, he could go months without thinking about sex, and there were times when he was not even remotely thinking about John Watson. John tolerated his lapses with the affectionate assurance that he understood that Sherlock was someone who didn't hold the door open unless he wanted something, forgot birthdays and anniversaries, and still had the same tempestuous moods that the soldier had been forced to deal with when his boyfriend had been his best friend. John had ostensibly grown accustomed to Sherlock's temper, his tantrums, his insults, his frantic dashing, his arrogance, and the way he swung between self-love and self-loathing.

Sherlock obviously wanted to compensate John for dealing with his impossible self, but he was still struggling with finding a gift. The hours of Christmas Eve elapsed much quicker than he would have preferred, and so it was at 4pm that he forced himself to finally conceive of an acceptable present for the most important person in his life.

His first thought was a wedding ring. (Was there anything more heartfelt? However, they had only been dating for a couple of months. He didn't want to ruin his chances with a premature proposal.)

His second thought was a pet. (Something seemed impossibly cliché about tying a red ribbon on the collar of a puppy, though. Besides, they would have to actually care for any animal that Sherlock bought, which meant that _John_ would have to care for it.)

His third thought was clothing.

His fourth thought was food.

His fifth thought was a vacation.

His sixth thought was sexual gratification. (Hadn't John mentioned something about wanting to have sex in public?)

His seventh thought was a summer house in the country. (Bit extravagant, he supposed.)

His eighth thought was to give John a box of some of Sherlock's things. (He couldn't bear the thought of parting with his coat and his microscope just to make a point. John didn't _want_ his things anyway.)

His ninth thought was a hotel room for a night. (He had found that one online and wasn't too keen on it, although he did appreciate that there was something nice about being able to make a large mess somewhere without being obligated to clean it up.)

His tenth thought was to take John to a concert.

His eleventh thought was to compose something for John. (He actually did that all the time anyway, although he had never actually _told_ John that the songs were for him.)

His twelfth thought was bedding. (Rather ridiculous now that he considered it. John liked being warm, though… It only made sense that Sherlock's intuition told him to cover John in blankets and build them a fort for the living room.)

Quite frankly, Sherlock was frustrated. He was excellent at figuring out people. He could determine age, gender, profession, socioeconomic status, and last meal from the tip of a single finger. He was brilliant, right? Why was finding a bloody Christmas present so difficult? His mind whirred away as he sat back in his chair deep in thought. And finally, as he realized it was too late for him to go out and buy anything anyway, Sherlock wrote down his twelve ideas on a slip of paper, crumpled it up into a ball, and put it below the Christmas tree along with a note.

_Any or all of this list. Merry Christmas._

He sat back down in discontent, utterly disappointed in his gift-giving abilities, when his mobile rang.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock could barely make out John's voice above the clamor that was surrounding the other man. "What do you want for Christmas? I feel like a git, but I haven't gotten you anything." His heart jumped at the sound of John's voice, even though his boyfriend sounded as tired and frustrated as he was.

"Come home."

"What? I can't hear. Sorry… One moment." The background noise suddenly stopped and Sherlock could imagine the soldier elbowing his way out of a crowded store. "What was that?"

"John, I want you home." And he did. More than anything, Sherlock wanted to be with John.

"But…"

"I didn't get you anything either. John, come home." There was a long pause on the other end of the call and then he heard static that he assumed meant John was sighing.

"Okay."

"Thank you. John, I love you."

"I love you too, Sherlock."


	13. Let It Snow - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 5
> 
> Today the prompt gods smiled down upon the Christmas Carols again and lo, they said
> 
> Let it snow!

John was walking home after spending an evening at Sherlock's. It was odd how things could change. For instance: When he'd stepped in Sherlock's flat John had been sure he was straight, thank-you-very-much, but when he stepped out he had not only snogged the man he'd gone to visit but also agreed to move in with him the following week to a new flat on Baker Street. He didn't know quite how all that had happened. It had been an ordinary evening at first; they'd spent time alone plenty of times.

 _Two frozen TV dinners. Two cans of soda. Microwave popcorn_. _All carried in a grocery bag that John had placed on Sherlock's kitchen table like he had dozens of times before._

But it hadn't gone like it usually had, John mused as he walked home through the snow which had been enough to make the lights flicker on and off until the power had gone completely earlier that evening.

_"What's going on?" John had asked._

_"A power outage, John," Sherlock had replied, making John roll his eyes._

_The heating had gone, too, and John wasn't feeling like braving the elements to go home so he had stayed. It had seemed the sensible thing to do to start a fire as Sherlock had a fireplace. So, John had done that, with an overly critical and back-seat-driving Sherlock standing over his shoulder barking out orders at him about the proper placement of tinder._

John grinned as he walked, remembering the warm firelight in the living room and Sherlock bringing out blankets for them to huddle under. The touching had started so innocently, just as the evening had started off so normal until the weather went foul.

_"John, feel my feet. Are they abnormally cold?" Sherlock had asked._

_"What? No. I'm not going to feel your feet," John had replied._

_"You're almost a doctor. Feel my feet, doctor," Sherlock had said, trying to seduce John to doing it._

_"Christ. Fine. Come here with them then," John had said, caving as he always did to please Sherlock._

Sherlock had thrown his feet up on the couch and John had put his hands on them.

John huffed a little laugh, a cloud of white coming out of his mouth as he did. Sherlock's feet hadn't been nearly cold enough to cause either of them any alarm.

_"You're fine," John said, looking up at Sherlock as he ran his hands over the slightly chilled feet._

_"Thank you, John," Sherlock had said._

Something about his voice had caused a little shiver to go down John's spine and suddenly there had been a whole world of things he saw in Sherlock's eyes he hadn't seen before. And then John had noticed Sherlock's lips. John had moved Sherlock's feet apart and trailed his hands up his legs, following with his entire body. He'd never been between the legs of a man before that, but he found he liked it when he laid his hips over Sherlock's.

A jolt went though John's body as he walked at the mere memory of how sharing body heat with Sherlock had felt. It made the cold air and snow feel that much more cold. But he thanked the snow. He really did.

[03:01] Sent you something. SH

[03:01] What? JW

[03:02] You'll see when you get home. SH

[03:03] How can it possibly arrive back before I do? JW

[03:06] I know some people. And you always take the scenic route. SH

_Sherlock's eyes had been calculating and analysing. John had found himself wondering if it was an experiment or if it had been a planned seduction of some sort. He had also found he didn't care. Whatever it was, it was fine._

_And then John had moved his face lower and lower until he could feel the exhale from Sherlock's lips hit his top lip. He had held himself still there for a few seconds, waiting to see if what he wanted was okay, if Sherlock wanted it too. There had been no resistance. So John had kissed Sherlock._

John licked his lips. They felt swollen and warm, and now that he thought about it, his entire face felt a little raw. He'd never been on the receiving end of stubble before. He'd have to buy lotion.

 _Their lips had slid against each other and soon they had been rolling their_ _hips too. Their erections had rubbed together and filled John with such a heat that after a minute or two of it, he'd had to excuse himself to go to the bathroom. He'd wanked into toilet paper._

_It had been too much, all of it at once. Kissing had seemed natural but coming into his trousers because he was rubbing up against another bloke had been too much for the first night. Sherlock had seemed to understand. In fact, when John came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was only wearing one sock and looked a little guilty._

_"I heard you. Did you do that on purpose or are you louder than you thought?" Sherlock had asked._

_"Louder than I thought," John said, blushing both from the realisation that he'd been overheard and that Sherlock had got off to it and then cleaned himself off with a sock._

It had been hard to leave. Walking further and further away now was hard. He wanted to turn back and keep kissing, but he was exhausted. It was not every day that he had a sudden crashing understanding that his sexuality wasn't linear as he thought it was. And it was not every day that his last words before leaving someone else's flat were 'yes, I will move in with you'. It was all right though, he just needed to go home and get a bit of rest.

And home he went, taking the scenic route just as Sherlock had said he would.

And as Sherlock had said, there was a little package waiting by his door with a note scrawled with untidy writing.

_'The first of many'  
_

John opened the box and found one black sock with a telling white stain on it. He had to lean against the door frame as he laughed.

"He's mad. He's completely mad," he said to himself.

[03:46] Sock wasn't doing a good job of keeping you warm anyway. JW

[03:47] Yes it was. Goodnight, John. SH


	14. Let It Snow - Golfechoromeo

This was _not_ what John had imagined doing on a Friday night. He had a date planned with a woman he had met at a bar the previous weekend that he had to cancel when Greg had called with Sherlock with a case. Now, they were in the lab at Bart's and Sherlock was fixated on whatever he was looking at under the microscope while John watched through the window as the snowstorm outside progressed.

"It's really coming down out there," John said.

Sherlock said nothing as he continued to focus on the slide he was observing.

Slightly put out by being ignored, John continued to watch the snow fall in blankets across the London street, covering the roads and sidewalks completely.

After another thirty minutes of silence, John began to question whether or not they'd be able to make it back to the flat. The amount of vehicles on the road had severely diminished and there were almost so passers-by.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John said, not really expecting a reply. "I think we'd better leave now or we may-"

"John, I'm _working_ ," Sherlock said with no patience in his voice.

John said nothing but began to seethe in frustration as he looked out the window. The snow was beautiful, but he began to notice that there weren't any more cars and there was not a soul to be seen on the sidewalk. _We're going to be snowed in here_ , he realised with a fresh surge of anger.

He could leave on his own and brave the weather and Sherlock could stay at the lab and be married to his work. John didn't need to stay there. John owed Sherlock nothing. He turned in fury ready to storm off when he looked at Sherlock and he knew that he couldn't. Sherlock had saved John's life. He owed Sherlock everything.

With his temper calming down and settling, John sat back in a chair and waited. After another hour, Sherlock stood up and grabbed his coat. "John, let's go inform Lestrade of these results of the soil taken at the crime scene."

John shook his head with a slight smile on his face. "You didn't hear a word I said to you, did you?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "When did you speak to me?"

"About two hours ago when the light snowfall turned into a blizzard, more or less," John said as he stood up and stretched. "We're not leaving here tonight, I can tell you that much."

Sherlock blanched. He ran to the window and looked outside and John could tell by the calculating look on his face that he was trying to figure out a way to get back to the flat and then the reluctant resignation set in when he realised it would be impossible.

"So we're stuck here," Sherlock said simply as he turned to look at John.

"Yes," John replied. "I warned you that we might."

Sherlock pulled up a chair beside John and the two faced themselves to look out the window.

"What do we do now?" Sherlock asked quietly as he settled into the chair.

"We let it snow," John whispered, letting his head fall to rest on Sherlock's shoulder.


	15. Let It Snow - Anne

Sherlock was not good.

John sighed and let him be for a few hours, not exactly willing to weather the wrath of the moody detective, but not exactly willing to leave him to his own devices either. It was a severe danger night and it once again became very clear to John that Sherlock was indeed the type of person who would be willing to shoot a poison into his veins, namely the infamous 7% solution, if it meant having relief.

The doctor supposed he had seen it coming. After all, Sherlock's crashes always started the same way. Sherlock would complain about everything for a while; the light in the room, any meals placed before him, his own physical appearance (such as his hair or his clothes), the day of the week, the people he ran into on the street, his lab equipment, the newspaper, the sun, the moon, and anything else that was unfortunate enough to be lying around. He was more likely than ever to snap at John, although the soldier could always see guilt clouding up the detective's eyes in a way that hurt John much more than the empty insults.

Sherlock would complain of other things; his eyes were tired, he had a headache, his back hurt, his jaw throbbed, his joints (mostly his ankles and wrists) would start aching and he would roll them in a futile attempt to cure emotional pain with physical motion.

John simply took him home. He still remembered the time Sherlock had broken down at a crime scene; the detective had sat down in the middle of the road, closed his eyes, and pressed his palms against his temples, lost to the world with a devastating expression wrinkling the pale skin of his face. John had made it his responsibility to not let that happen again.

He had gotten Sherlock home this time, and John was making tea. Sherlock seemed to have no trouble fixing him, but John was as helpless as ever to fix Sherlock when he was broken, to fix the elusive inner pain that surfaced from within the great man with a vengeance from time to time.

"Sherlock?" he rapped on the door softly, voice as unassuming as a man like John Watson could possibly make it. "I brought you tea." And then, in a moment of impossible bravery, John did the unthinkable. He let himself into Sherlock's room.

Normally, this wouldn't be such a big deal, but he almost expected to be shot on the spot for disturbing his unruly flatmate during a sulk.

The room was dark and cold; Sherlock was a ball under his covers, curled in upon himself in some unknown agony. His legs were into his chest, his face was curled into his knees.

"Um… All right. Leave it on my bedside table," a voice muttered from the lump on the bed. No bullet to the head? No lightening from the heavens? No great pit opening up beneath John's feet as punishment for breaking the sacred silence of Sherlock's unhappiness? John gained confidence, setting the tea down and tentatively sitting beside the condensed version of the detective's body on the bed.

"How are you doing?" Puffy, red eyes emerged from the mess of blankets (had Sherlock been crying?); John's stupidity apparently earned him a derisive glare, although Sherlock didn't hurl a hurtful comment in John's direction. In fact, he untangled his limbs just slightly and poked the rest of his head outside his cave of silk sheets. Did John's concern show on his face? Were his brows furrowed? Was it clear that he himself was breaking because of Sherlock's brokenness? Must have been, because after a pause (which John attributed to thinking), Sherlock pulled the soldier down beside him on the bed with his usual feline grace and invited him into the mess of bedding. Their bodies were level, and John could feel his best friend studying every feature of his face in what he realized was relief.

"Thank you. For the tea," Sherlock offered in a gravelly voice. Yes, he had clearly been crying.

"Yeah, not a problem."

"It's snowing,"

"Just a bit," the soldier conceded, eyes darting up to Sherlock's window and then back to its owner. As if suddenly aware that he was being watched, Sherlock tucked his head into John's chest to hide his face. John jolted just slightly in surprise and then rested an arm around the slender frame before him. He could feel Sherlock's breath through the fabric of his shirt (not a jumper today), hot and shallow; he could feel Sherlock's body adjusting as the detective came to terms with the fact that he was essentially being held by the man who was supposed to be helping him pay the rent, but had ended up doing so much more than that.

"Let it snow." John felt the words more than heard them; Sherlock's warm lips moved against his body and John took the liberty of pushing back some of Sherlock's hair soothingly.

"Let it snow."


	16. That's Not The Purpose of Ribbon - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 6
> 
> Today's draw was That's not the purpose of ribbon. Stories span from angst to smut.

The holiday party had started innocently enough. Harry had insisted she was fine with people having a few drinks around her. She'd been sober for a few months and felt strong. John, always far too optimistic and hopeful when it came to her sobriety, had congratulated her and served her a cup of tea in his favourite mug.

Half way through the evening, Mrs. Hudson hurried over to him looking distressed.

"John, they've eaten all the mince pies I made," she said, pointing at an empty spot on the kitchen table.

"Oh, dear. I think I had a hand in that," John replied with a smile.

"What shall we do? I've been asked twice already if there are anymore," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Really? It's odd, I can never really decide if I like them, but somehow they still end up in my mouth. I suppose I'm not the only one with the problem," John said.

"You'll have to go buy more," Mrs. Hudson said.

"What?" John said.

"Go buy more. They won't know if they're store bought. Just a few more packets should do us," Mrs. Hudson said.

"A _few more packets_?" John asked, "There aren't that many of us at the party. Who is eating them?"

Mrs. Hudson leaned in. "I think Mycroft is off his diet, and Molly had a bad day at work," she whispered conspiratorially.

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Fine. All right. I'll go," he said.

"And buy some more ribbon. Molly and I are wrapping gifts in the kitchen and we'll run out at the rate we're going," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Right," John said, putting on his coat and borrowing Sherlock's scarf. "Sherlock, I'll be back. D'you want anything?"

"Cigarettes," Sherlock said, holding back a smile when he saw John in his scarf. It matched his eyes.

"No. See you later," John replied.

There were a lot of people and long queues at the supermarket so it took him nearly three quarters of an hour to get back. He could tell something had changed when he came in through the front door. The atmosphere had changed even down to the first floor. The music playing wasn't gentle Christmas carols anymore, but blaring pop. The scene that met him when he came through the door upstairs made his face contort into the mix of disappointment, anger, fear and hopelessness that only Harry falling off the wagon could. The look was there for only a second, but it was long enough for Sherlock to see.

Harry was dancing around with ribbon wrapped around her head, her waist, her wrists and ankles like some crazed festive raver. And in her hand was John's RAMC cup which he suspected wasn't holding tea anymore.

John really didn't want to do damage control, but who else was there? It had been his job for decades already with a brief respites when Harry had had girlfriends mad enough to take her on. "Harry," he said. He was ignored. Harry kept dancing and the other guests stared. " _Harry_."

It did nothing. She kept dancing with the ribbons trailing around her like she was exhibiting in rhythmic gymnastics.

"Harry, please," John said. He was embarrassed. No, more than that. He was humiliated.

"Harry. _Harry_ ," he said, his temper starting to bubble. He grabbed her wrist and stopped her from moving anymore.

"Johnny! Johnny, it's alright. Don't ruin the party," Harry said, trying to bring the RAMC cup to her mouth so she could drink more. John held her wrist steady and stopped her. "Johnny, come on," she said. John shook his head.

John wasn't the only person in his family that had a temper. The entire Watson clan was known to explode in anger every so often. It was one of the reasons why John had trained himself to a slow burn. He didn't want to be like them. Harry had never any ambitions of that sort and often played out her anger without thinking.

"Fine! I won't drink it then!" she shouted, grabbing the cup with her other hand and throwing it to the floor. John's eyes followed it and he saw it bounce on the carpet and break in a pool of liquid.

Sherlock watched with so much sympathy that he guiltily found himself with a craving for cocaine. _John's favourite cup. She broke John's favourite cup,_ he thought. He saw John close his eyes as if in slow motion and for a horrible moment he thought John might cry. But he didn't. Of course he didn't. John was was a soldier. A strong man. A good man.

"Excuse me," Sherlock said, striding forward with a pair of scissors he'd taken from the gift wrapping station Mrs. Hudson and Molly had set up. He quickly cut the ribbon from Harry's waist and wrists, and pulled the one around her head off.

John looked at the ribbons as they fell like he'd never seen anything more offensive.

"Fresh air," Sherlock said, leading Harry out of the flat by a strong grip around her waist.

John stood confused, his sister and Sherlock gone in the matter of seconds. It was disorientating, like a vacuum had been created where a disaster had just existed. He didn't know what to do with himself so he went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It didn't taste as good as it usually did.

Within ten minutes the rest of the guests, save Mrs. Hudson, had left. It relieved John as much as it annoyed him that they were suffering from some sort of second-hand embarrassment and wanted to get away from him.

"I'll just clean up and be on my way," Mrs. Hudson said, bustling around the living room.

"No, Mrs. H, I'll do it tomorrow," John said.

"John, really, it's no pr-" she began.

"Please don't argue with me," he said with a hint of his Captain Watson voice.

She didn't argue and left after a comforting pat on John's arm.

John stayed in the kitchen with his tea that didn't taste right because it wasn't his cup. He tried to call Sherlock to find out where he'd gone but there was no answer.

Sherlock returned an hour and a half later. He had taken Harry to a hotel, ordered her greasy food and watched her until she had eaten every bite. Then he had cleared out the minibar and left. He felt very pleased with himself that he had saved John. His John. His John who should never have reason to almost cry.

The only noise in the flat was coming from the bathroom. John was in the shower, and had been for twenty-five minutes already in a vain attempt to wash away the memories of all the other times Harry had disappointed him the same way.

Sherlock sat in his chair for five minutes, anxiously waiting for John to come out so he could see just how bad the damage of the evening was. He stared toward the bathroom door, oblivious to the mess around him before the anxiety got the better of him and he started looking around for other things to focus on. His eyes fell on the pile of ribbon and the broken cup.

John shouldn't have to see it,

he thought, recalling the way John had looked at the evidence earlier.

He sprung into action, grabbing the ribbon and stuffing it in the kitchen bin. For good measure, he took the spools of ribbon from the kitchen table and binned those too. Then, deciding to do a proper job of it, he dug out all the presents from under their Christmas tree and cut all the ribbon off and threw it away. It was best to be thorough.

Lastly, he went to the mug on the floor and picked up the shards. A smile spread across his face when he saw that it had broken at the ear. That would be easy to glue.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was again sitting anxiously in his chair trying his best to be patient so John could finish processing in his own space.

Luckily, John had come to the realisation that the shower, like the tea, would not make him feel better. He was going to try to sleep it off instead. He stepped out and dried himself off, dressing himself in his robe.

" _John_ ," Sherlock said, his voice vibrating from impatience. He rose from the chair and walked toward John.

"Hi. Where did you go? Is she okay?" John asked, meeting him in the kitchen. There was a plea in his face that upset Sherlock deeply.

"A hotel. She will be fine. I am sorry she ruined your evening," Sherlock said.

"It's fine," John said, even though it wasn't fine. Not by a mile. "More upset about my mug, really," he said with a half-hearted chuckle.

A shot of nervous energy went through Sherlock's body and he spun around and grabbed the meticulously glued together mug off the counter. He held it out.

John stared so intensely at it that Sherlock was sure that this time he was actually going to cry. But John didn't. He had trained himself not to cry just as he'd trained himself to keep his angry outbursts to a minimum. He carefully took the mug out of Sherlock's hand and placed it back on the counter. He stepped closer to Sherlock and pressed his face into the taller man's chest.

"Thank you," he whispered.

What tea and an hour long shower had not fixed, wasn't fixed by Sherlock either.

But at least he wasn't alone anymore.


	17. That's Not The Purpose of Ribbon - Golfechoromeo

[13:24] Mrs. Hudson is having me help her wrap Christmas presents. SH

[13:26] God help her. JW

[13:30] How much longer until you're home? SH

[13:32] Sherlock, I'm at work. I'll be home for dinner. JW

[13:37] There's a lot of work that goes into wrapping presents. SH

[13:37] Lots of different pieces. SH

[13:40] What do you mean? JW

[13:45] Paper, ribbon, bows, tape, more ribbon, gift tags, and more ribbon. SH

[13:49] Mrs. Hudson does love ribbon. JW

[14:02] I'm back upstairs. SH

[14:02] I stole some ribbon. SH

[14:03] I think I might be able to put this to good use. SH

[14:04] I'll show you when you get home, John. SH

John looked at the text and couldn't stop the wolfish grin spreading across his face. Usually when Sherlock put things to 'good use' it ended with the two of them exhausted, naked, and smiling breathlessly. So the fact that Sherlock was considering using ribbon made John unable to focus that afternoon at work.

How was he supposed to concentrate on his patients when he imagined walking back into the flat and finding Sherlock ready and willing to be tied up with red and green and gold ribbon? Different scenarios danced and weaved their way through his imagination and at one point, John caught himself open mouthed and breathing more heavily than normal.

As soon as he had seen his last patient for the day, John tore out of the hospital and hailed a cab. Ordinarily, he would walk home and enjoy the cool winter night in London, but there was no time to dawdle. There was a Sherlock at home waiting for him. A Sherlock with /ribbon./ He could afford the cab fare in exchange for what his night would entail. John bounded up the stairs, his heart beating heavily and the smile on his face spreading on its own accord. He opened the door and called Sherlock's name.

"In here," Sherlock replied from the kitchen.

John could barely contain himself as he walked in and stopped dead in his tracks. Hanging from the ceiling, draped as if it was a Christmas decoration, was the ribbon Sherlock had stolen from Mrs. Hudson. It was just as beautiful in shades of red and gold and green as John had imagined it. What he had /not/ imagined was that hanging from the ribbon would be little bags containing different types of tobacco ash.

"John!" Sherlock said with excitement in his voice. "Look! Finally a way to look at the samples at once instead of spreading them out across the table!" He puffed out his chest in pride, thinking that he had been thoughtful that John would appreciate the gesture of trying to keep the kitchen a bit tidier.

John, however, stood there dumbfounded. Without a word, he picked up the remaining spool of ribbon from the table and grabbed Sherlock's hand. It was with a look of determination and frustration (and an underlying and overwhelming feeling of love) that John pulled Sherlock into their bedroom to show him exactly what the purpose of the ribbon had been.


	18. That's Not The Purpose of Ribbon - Anne

Sherlock and John had been wrapping presents. (John had been wrapping presents, a spool of ribbon tucked into his back pocket and tape dispenser stuck in his mouth for maximum efficiency, and Sherlock had been criticizing his present wrapping abilities.) Their exchange had been innocent; a bit rowdy perhaps, but otherwise innocent. At a particularly biting remark, John had tossed some ribbon at Sherlock's head, which had naturally brought the detective to the floor to reassert his dominance, which had ended up with John pinning him to his bed.

"Go finish wrapping presents," Sherlock demanded playfully, always pleased when John actually took the liberty of picking him up and carrying him to the bed they shared. The soldier was still in good shape, and Sherlock knew he liked to show off, what with the whisking him off and pinning him down business. John ignored his demand, instead dipping his head to the detective's neck and sucking roughly, one hand pressing Sherlock's wrists into his pillow. Sherlock squirmed; John knew his neck was sensitive, which was what made this particular assault so bloody arousing. The soldier's hips rolled and Sherlock let out a small exhalation, fully aware that there would be no further present wrapping until John got sex.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked abrasively when John pushed his legs open, earning a chuckle from the man on top of him that he found unbelievably brilliant.

"You're so abrasive. We don't have to if you don't want to."

"John, what do you want?"

"I want to tie you to the bed."

"Oh, do you?" Sherlock laughed this time, face growing red and body getting hotter by the second. "John, I assume you're aware that's not the purpose of ribbon."

"Please." John sunk his teeth into Sherlock's neck and the detective whined, shifting his body on the bed and tugging against John's grip on his hands. "Sherlock, please…"

"Okay, fine." As soon as the detective had given his permission, John pounced on him with more kisses; needy kisses, thank you kisses, bruising kisses, adoring kisses, until Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to escape the flood. "John, get on with it."

"You're so mean to me," the soldier complained, pulling the spool of ribbon from his back pocket and trying to rip some off with his teeth so he could keep Sherlock pinned.

"Mean to you? I'm doing a nice thing for you, Watson."

"Help me with this?"

"You're going to have to release me." John moaned with discontent, but obediently released Sherlock's hands so the detective could grab the scissors in the second drawer of his bedside table and cut the ribbon. Of course, as soon as two long pieces were freed from the spool, the soldier started tearing their clothes off, and proceeded to tie Sherlock's wrists to the bed. He sat back to admire his handiwork, and to smirk at the way Sherlock was testing the ribbon. As soon as Sherlock was secured, the restless man naturally wanted to be free, if only so he could slam John back onto the bed and fuck him senseless. Luckily for John, it didn't work that way. They actually had to enjoy the ribbon before Sherlock could exact his revenge.

"You are a beautiful man," John cooed, rewarding Sherlock's compliance with compliments. "Gorgeous, in fact. Lovely eyes, lovely cheekbones, lovely lips, lovely hair…" Damn him. Damn him. A happy warmth started spreading through Sherlock's body at the sounds of John's adoration; he was easily appeased, but the process was taking longer than he had patience for.

"John…"

"Okay, Sherlock. All right." John reached for the bottle of lubricant where it was still sitting on the bedside table from the night before, and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. Sherlock threw his hips up when he felt the slickness sliding onto his arse, but managed to stay relatively still as a finger worked its way into his body. "Lovely hips, lovely waist, lovely arse. Beautiful man." Another finger sunk into his body and Sherlock threw back his head into the pillow. He put up with the teasing for all of two more minutes before he glared at John intensely.

"Good enough." Sherlock was impatient as always, but he trusted John to take care of him. John always took care of him.

"Okay, okay. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're using me."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"My apologies," John replied in a mocking tone, carefully lining up his cock with Sherlock's body and sliding in, as requested. Sherlock's legs wrapped around John's back, although they were shaking, holding John close as Sherlock adjusted to the sudden fullness. He pulled against the ribbon a bit more roughly, and John held him tighter protectively. "Good or bad?"

"Good."

"You sure?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied instantly, incapable of finding words to properly convey how "good" he was at the moment. John pulled out a few centimetres and pressed in again, satisfied laughter sprinkling the air. He had finally gotten his gorgeous Sherlock to stop talking, and took the opportunity to kiss him once more before slowly beginning to thrust into the hot tightness. Everything was long and heavy and wet. Heat seemed to descend upon their bodies from an otherworldly source, which made them increasingly sweaty and strung out with each of John's thrusts and all sound ceased, save breathless moans that occasionally broke the silence. John started to speed up his motion, fitting a hand between them so he could tug on Sherlock's cock, the tip of which was wet with pre-come.

"John…"

"Yes, Sherlock?" Sherlock was silent, too transfixed on the feeling of being brutally fucked apart to speak. His body was beginning to tremble, and he finally focused solely on holding off the inevitable. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I… I have to." John growled, thrusting just a bit quicker, and Sherlock's hands became tight fists. Sherlock bit his lip, breathing coming heavily, body tight in anticipation.

"Sherlock, let go. I'm right here." The detective took in a deep breath, opened his eyes, and then let himself release, back arching off of the bed and wrists pulling the ribbon taut. The sight alone was enough to send John over, that and the nearly unbearable tightness of Sherlock's muscles contracting. When they had both finished, John wasted no time before cutting Sherlock free, kissing the slightly red marks on his wrists and pushing sweaty curls off of the beloved face tenderly.

"Not the purpose of ribbon…" Sherlock murmured, resting one of his arms around John's lower back.

"I think we put the ribbon to good use." Tired laughter filled the room, and Sherlock gave John a generous kiss.

"Mm, I agree. We might have to keep some for after Christmas."

"If you insist, you beautiful man."


	19. The Club at Christmas - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 8
> 
> Today's prompt is: The Club at Christmas! I really don't know where my (Avath) angsty ficlet came from and I am so sorry but that's what I thought of and so I had to write it. Anne and Golfechoromeo's ficlets will make it worth it to keep reading, I promise!

It hadn't been a good year for John. He'd been shot in Afghanistan and received emergent care that had turned out to be worse than the gunshot wound. He'd been given blood that had fallen through the cracks of testing. But today was a good day, and tonight he was going to visit his old favourite haunt.

"Thank you," John said, accepting a vodka tonic from the barman even though he knew he shouldn't drink alcohol in his condition. He looked around with a smile. He hadn't been out in ages. When the last brand of antiretroviral pills had turned out to have no effect on him, John had grieved for his own life. He knew it was ending. Maybe it should have ended when he was shot, but instead he'd been given a little extra time on Earth. It wasn't much, but he had to be grateful for that.

"Who do you think that is?" he asked Harry, his sister who had come down from Glasgow to spend Christmas with her brother. John pointed at a tall, curly haired man in a sharp suit who was standing at the other end of the bar with a whiskey glass and an admirer. He seemed a sensible looking man in a sea of people wearing ugly Christmas jumpers, antlers, Santa hats and tinsel as belts.

"Handsome for a bloke," Harry said with an appreciative smirk. She took a sip of her diet coke. She was sober for the moment and she would stay sober until John was gone. There wasn't much she could do for him, but peace of mind concerning her drinking was the least she could do for her little brother.

"Yeah, for a bloke," John said.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, wasn't oblivious to the man across the bar looking at him. _Closeted. Holding himself defensively but looks happy to be here. Military. I like military men,_ he thought with a grin.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, holding out his hand.

"Watson," John said. "John Watson."

Clearly military.

"Dance?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes." John didn't know how the word tumbled out of his mouth after years of pretending his urges didn't exist. Harry watched in awe, concerned for her brother's mental health, as John adjusted his grip on Sherlock's hand from greeting to simply holding it and led him to the dance floor.

They danced. John's energy levels were generally pretty low these days, but the music and being around all these people fed him and he kept dancing through five songs before he had to concede it was time to bow out and go home.

"Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," John whispered into his ear. He left Sherlock on the dance floor and waved Harry to follow him out.

"That looked like fun," she said carefully. She had seen a new side to her brother in the past half hour and it had brought her to bitter tears. She didn't want it to end.

"Yeah, it was," John said, smiling happily thought he was exhausted and starting to feel a little sick.

They hailed a cab.

"In you get, Harry," John said, holding up the door for her. She got in, glad to be out of the cold and out of the way of the horrible temptation that clubs were to her.

John took one last long look around the street to suck it in, to memorise it, because he knew this was the last time he would ever see a scene like it. Then he turned to get in the car.

"Wait! John Watson!" a voice called out, making John turn back. It was Sherlock, now clad in a long dark coat with a blue scarf tied around his neck over the well-cut suit. "Why are you leaving? I wanted to dance again," Sherlock said. He didn't know why he had run out after John. He had never run after anyone.

"Ah, you know. Just time to go home," John said.

"No. Stay," Sherlock said. He stepped closer, making John's stomach flip excitedly. His lips parted in anticipation when Sherlock started leaning in. He wanted it. But he couldn't have it.

"I can't," he said, taking a step back and bumping his back against the cab. "I have HIV."

Sherlock froze where he was and his eyes narrowed. It hadn't been bad lighting, then, making John look sickly. John was sick.

"I'm not scared," Sherlock said. _Not a good enough reason not to get to know you better, John_ , he thought.

"Then I'll be scared for you," John said. He put his hand on Sherlock's arm and squeezed it before he quickly slid into the cab and drove off. He wasn't going to drag anyone else down into the misery he knew was awaiting him as he got sicker.

John had a sleepless night. He had expended too much energy dancing with Sherlock for his restless body to relax properly. He was interrupted at five in the morning by a ring on his door. Confused and wary of trouble, John looked through the peep-hole of his door.

Sherlock Holmes. A tired and frustrated looking Sherlock Holmes.

John unlocked and opened his door.

"I'm still not scared, John," Sherlock said as soon as their eyes met.

John stepped to the side and let him in. They made toast and tea while they chatted. It turned out Sherlock was a genius both with chemistry and with how to make John laugh. John, in turn, had a calming effect on Sherlock and his witty remarks had him laughing just as much as he made John laugh. At ten o'clock, John was sound asleep in bed and Sherlock was busy riffling through his things to find out more.

John invited Sherlock to celebrate Christmas with him and Harry, and he accepted. It turned out that Harry also enjoyed Sherlock's particular brand of scathing humour and came to accept the strange turn of events in John's apparent sexuality.

As the days and weeks passed, Sherlock kept showing up at John's door at the oddest times. They always ate toast and drank tea until John became tired and had to lie down. Sometimes they kissed, but John wouldn't let it progress any further than that out of fear, even though Sherlock insisted that condoms would make intimacy perfectly safe for him.

After weeks and months had passed, Sherlock stopped leaving when John fell asleep. They slept together, chastely and sweetly. The first morning they woke up together, John looked at Sherlock with a sad clarity. "I love you," he said. His eyes closed in pain when Sherlock said it back.

"I'm not scared, John," Sherlock said, coaxing a smile out of John with butterfly kisses to his cheeks and nose.

Sherlock didn't only stop leaving, but he _stayed._ Through John's many colds, bouts of diarrhoea and high fevers that came out of nowhere. Sherlock stayed and he cared for John until John got better.

Eight months after their meeting, John got a cold. Eight and a half months later, he had pneumonia and was being treated at hospital. Sherlock hadn't left his side in months, and refused to now.

"I wish..." John whispered one night.

"Me too," Sherlock whispered back. He was playing with John's fingers, imagining what they'd looked like when he'd been a soldier. Callused and worn. Strong. Not clammy and weak as they were now.

John's breathing, already strained and slow, became irregular. Sherlock closed his eyes and begged for a miracle. He prayed. For hours, he prayed. He prayed and hoped until he smelled acetone on John's breath. That was when he ultimately decided there was no God.

John stirred only from his unconscious state once more. He opened his eyes and searched for Sherlock's face in the morning light. He found it and smiled.

" 'Lock, I love you," he whispered.

"I love you, too, John," Sherlock replied. He wasn't sure John had heard it but he had to believe.

One hour later, John was dead.

The gravestone was a dark grey with gold lettering. Sherlock and Harry had agreed John had shone like the sun in their lives and deserved to have that shown on his final resting place. There had been dozens of people at John's funeral; old friends, soldiers, even teachers from university, but now only Harry and Sherlock remained to stand watch over John's grave with only a gentle summer breeze to keep them company.

"I'm glad he met you," Harry said, tears streaming down her face.

"I-" Sherlock said. His whole body was vibrating and he kept reading the name on the gravestone, trying to accept what it said.

_John Hamish Watson. John Hamish Watson. John Hamish Watson._

With a loud sob, Harry turned around ran out of the cemetery to find the closest bar.

Sherlock stayed where he was, staring at the three words that built up the name of the man that he had loved. The man he now had to learn to live the rest of his life without. His body shook and his legs gave out. He fell to his knees in the grass.

"I'm scared, John," he whispered before he put his hands over his face and cried.


	20. The Club at Christmas - Golfechoromeo

Sherlock had chosen his clothes for that night with little to no care whatsoever. Usually when he was going to the club, he would spend time figuring out what shirt and trousers combination would help him pull, aiming to get in a good snog before returning back to his dorm room. But tonight was different. Tonight was Christmas Eve and, having refused to accompany his family to Majorca, and his best friend John going to Scotland to visit family, Sherlock found himself alone with no plans.

He had thought of staying in his dorm and doing some reading or continuing the research he had started on the molecular properties and viscosity of honey when subjected to different temperatures, but even Sherlock could not rationalise with himself being alone completely on Christmas Eve. At least if he went to the club, he would be around other people. Maybe he would bring some other lonely soul back to his room with him so he would have to wake up by himself on Christmas morning.

As Sherlock walked into the club, he was surprised with how full it was. He had been expecting it to be nearly empty, but there was a substantial amount of people there, and then his heart sank. It seemed that everyone there that not was there with someone else. _Of course_ , he thought miserably. _Who else would be alone on Christmas Eve?_

 

He took a seat at the middle of the bar and smiled at the bartender.

"Evening, Kenneth," he said.

"No plans tonight, Sherlock?" Kenneth asked as he pulled two beers out from under the bar and passed them to a young man and woman who looked so happy together that Sherlock wanted to throw Kenneth's bar towel in their faces.

"No," Sherlock replied bitterly.

"Where's your partner in crime?" Kenneth asked as he fixed Sherlock a gin and tonic.

Sherlock sighed and slid his phone out of his pocket to check to see if he had any texts. Not a one.

"John's in Scotland with his family," he said, not realising how much of a whine there was in his voice.

Kenneth noticed it and chuckled softly. "Well, maybe tonight will have something good in store for you. It is Christmas, after all."

Sherlock said nothing and took a long sip of the gin and tonic. He turned away from the bar and looked out at the dance floor. The loud, pulsing music was doing what his gin and tonic wasn't: making him forget what day of the year it was. He could pretend that it was any other night and that he had just come out that night out of boredom. That was, until, a group of girls came in wearing reindeer antlers and Santa hats and Sherlock angrily turned back towards the bar again.

He was about to order another gin and tonic when a fruity, pink coloured drink was placed in front of him by Kenneth who looked somewhere between humoured and terrified of Sherlock's reaction.

"From that gent, down there," Kenneth said, pointing to the end of the bar on Sherlock's left. "He thought it would be a drink you'd like," he added with a smirk, knowing that it was something Sherlock would have dumped on the floor and considered to an improvement to the drink.

Sherlock passed the drink across the bar and said, "Well you can tell him that no, he can drink it himself." Kenneth shook his head at how tactful that was for Sherlock and picked up the drink, carrying it back over the man who had sent it. Sherlock looked at him and felt bored. The man held no attraction for him. He checked his phone again, hoping for a message from John. Still nothing. Pouting, Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket.

The night progressed like that, with Sherlock being sullen and checking his phone for texts from John, and being let down. Surely, John would have sent him something by now. _Unless he's ditched his family and is getting off with someone_. The thought made Sherlock more depressed than anything else that night, and that included being alone on Christmas Eve. Other single men (and one seriously misguided woman) sent drinks his way, but nothing was something Sherlock would consider drinking.

Which is why, when Kenneth placed a glass of Talisker whiskey in front of him, Sherlock looked up in shock. "Who is this from?" he asked, holding the glass up and feeling a rush of gratitude towards whoever had sent it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Sherlock took it out.

[22:14] It's from me, you git. JW  
[22:15] Happy Christmas. JW

Sherlock smiled widely as he looked up at Kenneth.

"From the attractive man down at the bar who just arrived," Kenneth replied with a giddy grin.

Sherlock did not wait a minute longer. He moved to John at the end of the bar and sat down next to him. Something changed in the air between them as the implications of what John had left behind for Sherlock settled around them both. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't be waking up alone on Christmas morning after all.


	21. The Club at Christmas - Anne

Sherlock wasn't a stranger to the club scene, although it was often with reluctance that he donned a tight shirt and well-fitted trousers to face the resounding beat and bass that inevitably pounded through his body to his bones when he did deign to go out. He hated everything about "going out," other than the opportunity to observe the mundane doings of human beings of course. Observing, after all, was a form of research. Why was he there, then, peering from his secure perch at the bar at the sea of thoughtless beings on the dance floor on Christmas Eve of all times? Because there was no reason for him not to be. Because it was a good place to find someone for the night. Because he could get drunk, and high, if he so pleased, and stop thinking. Otherwise, it was damn hard for him to stop thinking; to cease the waves of contemplation, analysis, and all-consuming introspection that so often reduced him to debilitating depression. In comparison, this was much better.

Sherlock threw back another shot of whiskey (was that number six or seven?), and looked around the bar as if he owned it. He could feel people watching him, desiring him, undressing him with their eyes, and it made him feel like a god.

Alone on Christmas. Not for long. He never had to be alone if he didn't want to be. Alone was a choice. Right…?

Turning down drinks was a choice. Refusing to dance was a choice. Refusing to respond to the advances of at least five suitable partners was a choice.

Alone on Christmas. Maybe. If he kept going at this rate.

He felt someone looking at him intently and redirected his gaze to meet dark blue eyes. Dark blue eyes and a very attractive face. And a very attractive body. Interesting.

"John Watson," the man said when he noticed Sherlock had caught him in his self-indulgent staring, offering a hand for Sherlock to shake. It was ignored. Instead, Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking a sip of whiskey dismissively before he realized that John was still there and undeterred.

"Do you want to buy me a drink?" Sherlock asked with a smirk, indicating that he had been receiving such offers all night and hadn't showed any of his other benefactors a modicum of generosity. Who was this man, anyway? He certainly didn't seem to be having a good time like the others were, although Sherlock had a feeling that they could have an excellent time together. John Watson was injured, clearly, by the way his hand was shaking and the defensive way he was standing. Perhaps suffering from PTSD. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock had seen men like this before, the ex-military type. Interesting things happened to people who were injured, broken, alone. "I'd like a few shots of whiskey, if you were wondering." He didn't exactly need to get more drunk than he already was, but there was nothing wrong with having a drink with an attractive man, was there? His face became more angular as he observed this John Watson bloke, as he took in every feature with a thoroughness that generally made people uncomfortable. Sherlock paused, pleased with how strong this man's hands looked, how clear and deep his eyes were, the brilliance with which he held himself. Lovely. Really lovely.

"Afghanistan. I'll buy you a drink," John replied with a smirk, clearly tickled by the fact that such a seemingly elusive man was giving him any manner of attention. He couldn't help but feel a little wary, mostly because he certainly couldn't think of anyone who'd want to talk to him. Especially not this obviously intelligent and good looking stranger who seemed like he could have his pick of anyone in the bar by the lusty looks he was getting.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John's flat was modest, but nice enough, although Sherlock couldn't really make a definitive opinion, as he had only really seen the bedroom. Ah, well. It wasn't exactly important whether the flat had been nice or whether the man had been nice (he had been). Sherlock had officially been with someone on Christmas, as the clock on the bedside table read 2:04am when he freed himself from the covers. John, asleep already, turned towards where his body had been, sucking up the heat left behind instinctively. It was only when Sherlock started dressing that the soldier was roused from his daze.

"You're leaving?" he asked in a drowsy voice, yawning heavily. John looked confused, and Sherlock wondered vaguely what it would be like to climb back under the covers and allow the sun to rise. Unfortunately, he didn't have quite the stomach for that. Leaving was even harder when the night had already been eradicated by day.

"I have work to do."

"It's Christmas."

"I'm busy." He didn't need to explain himself to this stranger. Sherlock Holmes could leave John Watson's apartment whenever he bloody wanted to. After all, he barely knew the man. He pulled on his trousers, zipping them up in a fluid motion and beginning to re-button his tight shirt.

"Sherlock?" He gave no reply, only reached for his coat. John came to sitting and watched him prepare to make his escape. "Let me give you my number. If you ever aren't so busy." His number? John wanted to give Sherlock his /number/? The soldier clearly didn't understand how a one night stand worked. Sherlock felt a sting of hurt as he realized that watching John sober up from post-coital bliss was oddly heartbreaking, but he didn't let his natural discomfort show on his face. They had had a good time together. There was no reason to stretch out the inevitable end with other, future meetings.

" _Sherlock._ " John's voice was rough and the pure emphasis on his name made Sherlock lift his head to meet the other man's eyes. "Stay for breakfast. It's… late. And snowing. It will be a white Christmas this year. Bit different than the holidays in the desert." John's voice cracked, and Sherlock eyes darted to the bandage on his shoulder. Wounded. He had deduced as much. John had said so.

Was John Watson going to cry? Sherlock didn't want him to cry, but he was aware that that was exactly what was happening as a few tears slid down the other man's face. Alone on Christmas. Sherlock wouldn't force that fate on his worst enemy; certainly not the broken man before him. He approached the bed again, tracing under John's eyes with his forefinger and feeling his body tense at the feeling of wet.

And then he started undressing, letting each article of clothing silently fall to the ground before he climbed back into the strange bed that didn't seem all that strange to wrap himself around the stranger that didn't seem strange at all.

Alone on Christmas. Not this year.


	22. Hot Chocolate or Tea? - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 8
> 
> Today's prompt is Hot Chocolate or Tea?

Sherlock was flying home after sorting out a case in Spain. Mycroft had sent him there with the promise that it would be worth the time. Mycroft had been wrong. Sherlock had cleared up the case within three hours but had had to wait an additional three days to get on a flight home. It was Christmas and all the flights were fully booked. He'd spent the two nights and two and a half days at the airport, making the staff fear him and buying and discarding every English non-fiction book in the book shops. He'd drunk a cup of coffee every hour, on the hour until he was a caffeinated mess with trembles and an upset stomach.

When a seat finally opened up on one of the flights, Sherlock was very pleased it was in business class. Mycroft would have to pay for the misery he had caused his little brother.

Sherlock took his seat, in a fouler mood than he had managed to conjure in months. He glared at the stewardess who was peaking at him through the curtain between the cabin and little kitchenette.

"Watch out for that one," she told her co-worker for the day.

"Hmm? Who?" John Watson asked.

"That guy who hasn't taken off his coat or scarf with the face like he's eaten a a handful of lemons," she said.

John looked out from the curtain with a pleasant smile on his face, pretending to scan all the passengers but lingering on one.

"Ah, a difficult one. Would you like me to take care of him, Marianne?" John asked.

"Oh, bless you. You really are too good for this job," Marianne said.

John chuckled. None of the people he worked with, besides his boss, knew that John wasn't simply John. He was Doctor Watson, ex-RAMC soldier who held the rank of Captain. He'd tried to go back to working in a regular clinic after his return home from Afghanistan, but the boredom had almost killed him. He needed to be moving. By chance one day he'd seen an advert in the papers announcing that adventurous souls who were service-minded were welcome to apply to be stewards or stewardesses. John had got the job.

The plane took off and it was time to take the drink trolley around.

Sherlock was deeply lost in his sulk when he was interrupted by a friendly voice. He immediately snapped his eyes up with his most intimidating glare. He was disappointed to find that the person on the receiving end did not recoil or have the slightest slip in his smile.

"Hot chocolate or tea?" the person asked instead.

"Coffee," Sherlock replied.

"I'm afraid we're out of coffee today, unfortunately. We're due to pick some up when we land in London," the man said.

"No coffee?" Sherlock asked. _But I want coffee. I need coffee,_ he thought. His body had come accustomed to the steady influx of it and, more so, Sherlock's mind had come to expect it.

"I'm sorry. I can do you hot chocolate or tea."

"Neither. Goodbye," Sherlock said, turning away to sulk again.

"Well, if you change your mind just let me know. My name is John," John said.

Sherlock didn't reply and John moved on down the aisle. Sherlock did, however, watch John as he talked to the few customers in business class. He seemed to have a very disarming personality but whenever someone was rude he seemed to stiffen like he was holding back remarks of his own. _Interesting._ In fact, the way John held himself in general was stiff. Like a soldier. But what would a soldier be doing here?

"Oh, is your Nitroglycerin spray?" John asked a portly looking man after picking the object off the floor.

"Yes it is," the man said, snatching it from John.

"Have you been having any problems during the flight? Any shortness of breath? Chest pains? Pains in your arm?" John asked.

 _Interesting again._ It looked like John assessing him, looking over the man's face and lingering on the visible pulse on his neck. How did a steward know to do that?

"No, none at all," the man replied looking surprised.

"Let me know if you do. I know a thing or two about more things than just tea," John said with a chuckle. The man nodded and John disappeared behind the curtain.

The mystery of John Watson, Steward, was far more interesting than the case Mycroft had sent him on. He wanted to find out more. He pressed the call button.

"Yes? What can I do for you? Changed your mind about a drink?" John said.

"You're a soldier. You were invalided from wherever you were; I'd say Afghanistan or Iraq, but you're a steward now and you fly to sunny places so the tan could be recent," Sherlock said. He was pleased to note surprise in John's face.

"Yes. How the hell did you know that?" John said. "Sir," he added to make up for his foul language.

"Oh, please. You're stiff as a board when you walk. Typical soldier. More stiff in your left leg and shoulder, though. But the stiffness in your leg went away after you'd assessed that fat man with angina," Sherlock said.

John's eyes widened. "Keep your voice down, he'll hear you," he hissed.

"Were you a medic? Or were you just trained in first aid by someone knowledgeable and thorough?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John said, his eyes narrowing. He didn't want this man to somehow lay bare all the things that John had hid so well so far.

Sherlock said nothing, but simply waited with curious eyes. John's eyes got caught in the pale blue and he felt something fall in him like dominoes.

"I was a doctor," John said.

"Was?" Sherlock asked.

"Am."

 _A doctor in the British Army, invalided home and now working as a steward. Why?_ Sherlock noted that John not only seemed interesting but there was something very attractive about his facial features _._ _He's bored like me. He needs excitement that being a regular doctor can't provide. So he flies and hopes for medical emergencies in the sky. Interesting. Very interesting._

"That was brilliant," John said, pressing the stop button Sherlock's racing thoughts.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"Yes, of course. That was absolutely brilliant. Amazing," John said, looking at Sherlock and shaking his head in disbelief.

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock said.

"What do people normally say?" John asked.

"Fuck off," Sherlock said. The surprised look on his face became even more so when John started to laugh. _He thinks I'm funny. And brilliant and amazing_ , he thought. And suddenly he was laughing too.

"I'll get you a hot chocolate," John said, straightening up and moving away, his shoulders still shaking with laughter.

It turned out John got Sherlock much more than that. And to Mycroft's horror and Sherlock's infinite delight, Sherlock thanked him for the absolutely horridly boring case because it had brought an acceptable assistant to help him with future cases; one who was medically trained and therefore could accurately and efficiently both give options of causes of death, but also find Sherlock's prostate with minimal fuss.


	23. Hot Chocolate or Tea? - Golfechoromeo

Sherlock ran from his house, trying to keep his tears from streaming across his face. He ignored the shouts of his mother to get back into the house. He had suffered enough for one Christmas. Between his parents telling him that they were sending him to boarding school and Mycroft not coming to his aid when he said he didn't want to, Sherlock had begun to sob. Leave London? Leave John? No, he wouldn't do it.

He ran to John's house as quickly as his legs could carry him. Each time his foot slammed against the pavement, his blood pulsed in his veins. He needed to get to John's house. He needed his best friend. Running up to the front door, Sherlock rang the doorbell four times and began to knock furiously until the door opened.

"Jesus Christ," he heard from inside the house. "Who the fuck is that? John, go get the door."

Sherlock's chest was rising and falling rapidly when John opened the door.

"Sherlock!" he said happily before he saw the look of misery on his face. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Boarding school," was all Sherlock was able to get out before the tears fell from his eyes.

John's heart broke, but he needed to be strong for his best friend. "It'll be okay, Sherlock," John said encouragingly, guiding him into the house and ignoring the toys he had gotten for Christmas. "Do you want something? Hot chocolate or tea?"

Sherlock sniffled. "Hot chocolate, please."

John sat in his armchair, reading, waiting. Sherlock had been down at the morgue when he had figured out that Irene had been killed and was identifying the body. Mycroft had called ahead that he had taken the cigarette and John had gotten dumped by Jeanine. He found he didn't care all that much. His primary concern was Sherlock's well being. That was always what he cared about and put before all else, ever since they were children.

What could he do? This situation was so outside of anything they had ever been through together. There had never been a woman involved, at least not for Sherlock. John's heart tightened and jealousy bubbled deep within him. He pushed it to the side and chose to ignore it. He simply didn't like that he was competing for the attention of Sherlock with this woman.

_She's dead now. And Sherlock needs you._

 

John had tried to figure out a way to help Sherlock but all he could come up with was what he had tried the first time his best friend had been upset on Christmas.

Footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock was home.

John turned. "Oh, hi," he said, trying to sound conversational. He could see the torment in Sherlock's eyes. "You okay?"

He watched as Sherlock turned and walked away. "I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time."

John waited for some sort of sign or thank you, that Sherlock had seen the two mugs sitting on the kitchen table. One with hot chocolate and one with tea. But after he heard the bedroom door close, John sighed, putting his book down and rubbing his eyes. When he stood up and walked into the kitchen, he saw the mug of hot chocolate had disappeared and he allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps he had helped again.

It was not a good Christmas. It was painful. It hurt. For some reason, the previous Christmas had been easier, his first without Sherlock. The sting of the loss was fresh, but John was trying to come to terms with it. By the second Christmas, the hole Sherlock had left had opened into a chasm, one that John thought he could fall into at any moment.

Mary was at home, getting ready for them to go to Harry's for dinner, but John found himself sitting in a cafe. Not Speedy's because the memories were too much. It was more or less an anonymous cafe, one he had been to perhaps two or three times in the past two years. It was remarkable the place was open at all on Christmas, but John had deduced that the owner had no family of his own so the holidays held no importance to him. He smiled sadly as he sat down at a table. He had _deduced_. And it broke his heart even more. How was he going to get through Christmas? He had nothing to calm him down or cheer him up when he was upset. Every other Christmas, he had been concerned about making sure Sherlock was alright. Who was there now to make sure John was?

A waiter came to the table, but John didn't look up from the little menu.

"Hot chocolate or tea?" the man asked.

John's heart stopped and he looked up into the eyes he had not seen in two years, recognising that voice anywhere.

"Hot chocolate," John said, his voice catching in his throat, but Sherlock was ahead of him. The cup was already on the table.


	24. Hot Chocolate or Tea? - Anne

Sherlock was currently sitting propped up in his bed with Wallace deeply asleep in his lap. The little boy was small and innocent, and seeing him sparked something in Sherlock that he didn't know he was capable of feeling. Already, he was remarkably protective, immeasurably invested in the life of this small being that he had taken home with him from the crime scene. Perhaps the only reason he had been permitted to disobey protocol in that fashion was because everyone saw it; the look in his eyes that warned all intruders to cease any attempts to separate him from the terrified toddler.

_Burning. Everything burning. Alone._

He had heard John come in, but hadn't wanted to disturb the warm ball of child in his lap on his bed until he felt obligated to. It was when he received the final angry text from John asking where he was and what the hell he was doing that he touched Wallace's shoulder lightly, stirring him from sleep. "Do you want to meet John? I told you about him, remember? My best friend. He lives here too." It was odd and surprising difficult for Sherlock to take all the sarcasm and cold wit from his voice to talk to a child, but he didn't mind. Wallace's eyes were blinking softly, heavy with sleep, and he nodded, yawning sweetly before wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. The detective's eyes widened; he was still wonderfully enamoured with every small sign of affection.

Come into my room. SH

_Fire. Burning. Alone. Shadows on a white wall. Red heat. Falling beams; scared. Alone. Scared. So scared. "No one's in there. Might as well wait for the firemen." Ouch. Fire. Hot. Alone._

"John," he murmured, "this is Wallace." Sherlock couldn't seem to stop smiling, albeit tiredly, which he supposed was a bit not good considering the fact that he had literally brought home a child without receiving John's permission. "Come here," he demanded, beckoning the solider over to the bed and pulling him into it. In his normal choppy fashion, although with less coldness than he usually displayed, he unwrapped Wallace's arms from around his neck and placed the clingy child on John's lap without saying another word. He had told Wallace about John; how much he loved John, how John would protect the two of them at all costs. He had to assume that the toddler would make the appropriate connections. The child let out a small whine at being finally separated from Sherlock (it had been the first time all night except for a two minute period where Wallace had had to pee), but Sherlock didn't react. The sound made his ears ring and his heart rate pick up, but he knew that John had to make the appropriate connections as well.

"Sherlock?" John was confused. Reasonably so.

"Sherlock? What are you doing? There's no one in there. Arse!" Burning. Shadows. Hot, hot, hot. Hurt, red, fire. Scared. Dark hair. Pale skin. Piercing eyes. Big coat.

"I singed my coat." John's eyebrows raised at that, and Sherlock didn't offer an immediate explanation. "Can we discuss it tomorrow?" he mumbled, drawing himself against John's body and helping the other man slide to his back. John was taking everything surprisingly well. The little boy was already soothed, to Sherlock's delight. The detective was so exhausted that he couldn't imagine keeping his eyes open another minute. He lay on his side and extended an arm to rest on Wallace's back. "Good night."

_"You fucking idiots." Red. Irate. Sherlock. Held up by Sherlock. "We didn't know. Nobody saw anything." Coat. Sherlock._

When Sherlock woke up in the morning, John was still asleep, but Wallace was awake and staring at him, eyes wide like those of a fawn. He vaguely remembered reading somewhere that toddlers could have odd sleep patterns, especially if they were adjusting to a big change, and a quick glance at the clock told him it was already 7:14. Not too early. He smiled, pulling Wallace carefully off of John's chest and resting him on his own so he could give him a hug and a kiss. "Good morning," he whispered, ruffling the child's dark hair affectionately. "Sleep well?" He knew it must be odd for John to imagine him being so close to someone he had just met (a child in particular), but he hadn't been there during the fire. He wasn't aware that the firefighters had determined there was no one in the building, and that Sherlock after much yelling and cursing, had shoved his way into the collapsing edifice himself.

Sherlock loved watching Wallace just as much as he liked watching John, even though the little boy hadn't said a word yet. Shock?

_Burning, smoke. Building collapses. Water. Warm. Coat. Sherlock._

A shadow. He had seen a shadow. When he had found Wallace, the kid had been bawling and coughing from all the smoke, and Sherlock had laid his coat down over some flames so that he could get to the young boy, then used it to extinguish the flames around him and bring him to safety just as the whole structure of the complex began to buckle. When he had made his way out with the child in his arms, the chief fireman had screamed at him about blatant disregard of protocol, his brother had sent him a few texts about self-preservation, and Lestrade had looked at him like he was out of his bloody mind. Oh, and his coat had been singed; he was a bit upset about his coat. And that was why, in the late hour of the night, Wallace had been permitted to go home with him instead of being immediately reported to Child Protective Services. That, of course, didn't mean he knew how to care for a child. Sherlock stared at Wallace for a moment longer, still holding him close and then, after some hesitation, started to tickle his sides until the small body was rocking with laughter on top of him. When Wallace had settled, and he could see John stirring on his side of the bed, Sherlock pulled his mobile from where it was resting charging on his bedside table, and started working on the business for the morning as Wallace jumped on John.

"Sherlock, breakfast. You have to feed it."

_"Sherlock, wait a second. You'd better take care of him. And you need to bring him in tomorrow." Sherlock. Warm. Safe. "Obviously I'll take care of him. I'm getting a cab now, Lestrade. Fuck off."_

"Breakfast, indeed." Sherlock slipped from the bed at John's command; he would have to behave himself more now that he was trying to set an example. Besides, there was something in John's eyes he wasn't altogether comfortable with. A flash of pain that was very familiar to him and that he always hated seeing. Back to his father then. Or his war days. Maybe bringing home the child was a bad idea.

Sherlock began looking around in the refrigerator after laying out some bread for John to make toast with, finally producing eggs, cheese and bacon. Good enough.

Before he actually started making anything, though, his mind jumped to the violin and nothing else seemed important. He ran to retrieve it from where he had left it on his chair and brought it into the kitchen where Wallace was, waving the bow around a bit maniacally. He presented his prize to the little boy carefully, inviting him to observe the instrument before he plucked a string so Wallace could hear the sound. He laughed happily as he plucked another, running the bow over the strings, quite pleased with the sudden spark of interest he saw in the little boy's eyes, in-disguisably thrilled by Wallace's reaction to the instrument.

"John… can you make us breakfast?" Sherlock asked softly, wanting to remain as distracted as possible if the violin was involved. He actually wanted to show Wallace how it worked, let him attempt to play it (perhaps with a cheaper bow if he could find one as squeaking would likely ensue), and he wanted to give the boy lessons. "Come here, Wallace," he beckoned, voice thick with excitement.

_"You'll like John. He's a doctor. Protective. Safe." Safe. Sherlock. John?_

He spirited Wallace away to the couch where he sat down with a plop and began playing a fairly simple fiddle tune to the little boy's absolute delight. When he was done, he handed the violin over to Wallace, chuckling lightly when he saw how awkward it was in little hands. No matter. Right now, Sherlock just wanted him to mess around. Screw getting him a cheap bow; Wallace could ruin this one. Wallace could ruin the damn violin. Sherlock could always buy another one. He brought the child's hands to the E string, demonstrating how it could be be plucked once more and kissing Wallace's forehead when he followed suit. Yes, he had the makings of a good violinist. If that wasn't a sign of potential talent, he didn't know what was.

If he wasn't so preoccupied with the child, he would realize how much he was longing for the soldier. Longing. This was his chance at making a family for himself, a better one than he had ever had growing up, although he supposed that John didn't have to be in love with him for that to happen. In fact, he truly believed that the other man could share a bed with him permanently, take him on dates (why didn't John notice that they went on dates?), start kissing him more often, and raise a child with him with more consistency than many husbands did. What did the title mean anyway? What was the point of sex anyway? He actually had a very good answer to that one, but he shoved it away in the back of his head to focus on the day ahead of him.

"Wallace?" John called from the kitchen, hands full with a pan, two plates, and a thing of jam. "Hot chocolate or tea?" Sherlock looked at the fresh face, the bright eyes, the happy smile that was still a bit weaker than he wanted it to be.

_Sherlock and John. Safe. Talk. Just talk. Safe._

"Hot chocolate, please…"


	25. Blankets - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 9
> 
> Today's prompt is Blankets! And now I've successfully migrated all the stories so far over here. Phew.
> 
> Anne's will be along when I wake up. Time differences are tricky.

" _John!_ _John! I'm here! Open the door!"_ Sherlock shouted, pounding his little fist on the door while trying to balance the pile of blankets he was

holding with his other arm.

John opened the door. "Get in! Quickly! It's cold. I don't want you to catch cold," he said, stepping aside so Sherlock could come in.

"Are you cold? Why are you cold? Are you ill, John? Why do you need a blanket?" Sherlock asked, critically surveying John's face.

"I'm not sick, Sherlock. I just want to build a fort. Did you just bring one blanket?" John asked, sounding disappointed.

"No, John. I brought thixth blanketth. I thought about taking Mycrof'th but I didn't want to make your houthe thmell and your mummy mad at me," Sherlock said seriously.

"Great!" John said. He turned around and ran towards his room in excitement. He really liked having Sherlock as his friend because he was younger and that meant he could play silly games that he knew were for little kids. And he wasn't a little kid anymore. His next birthday would make him eleven.

Sherlock followed eagerly, leaving footprints of snow behind him because he forgot to wipe off his shoes. He didn't know how to build a blanket fort. He liked playing with John because the older boy knew a lot of things he didn't but was never mean about it. John was almost always nice to him.

He walked into John's room to find a pile of blankets on the bed and chairs from the Watson kitchen. He dumped his blankets on top of the rest on John's bed and then sat down, tired from carrying the bundle from the car. "Mummy thaid I could thleep over if I wanted to," he said.

"I'll have to ask mum if she has enough for dinner," John said.

Sherlock nodded even thought he didn't understand. Wasn't there always plenty of food? Yet John was always making comments like that.

 _Where does food come from?_ Sherlock thought. Someone had to buy it. Someone with a job. But John's dad had a job so why couldn't he buy enough?

"Come on, Sherly, move the chairs so they're in a square," John said.

"My name ithn't _Therly._ It'th _Therlock_ ," Sherlock said crossly. He crossed his arms and stared up at John with a defiant expression. He was going to move until John called him by his right name.

John took one look at Sherlock and then started to move the chairs around to what he thought might be the best positioning. He worked for a few minutes but then found the silence intolerable.

" _Fine! Sherlock_ help me move the stupid chairs," he said.

Sherlock, who had becoming anxious to be a part of whatever John was doing flew up and started to help. "That ithn't the betht way to put the chairth, John. If you turn them the other way, it'll provide more thtability."

John felt a temper tantrum start to bubble in his body and pushed a chair so it fell over. Sherlock was so hard to cope with sometimes. He stormed to the corner of the room and sat down with his knees crossed and a sour expression.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"Mum says when I have a temper tantrum I have to be put in time out to calm down," John said.

"Oh. Are you having one now?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John said.

"Why?" Sherlock said.

"Because you're... you're... Because I didn't put the chairs right and you had to fix it," John said.

"Oh. Thorry. If I have a tempter tantrum can I thit nextht to you?" Sherlock asked.

John tried to remember all the rules for what happened when he had a tantrum but he couldn't remember one that said he had to be alone for it.

"Yeah," he said.

Sherlock nodded solemnly and then pushed a chair too with a cross look on his face. He ruffled around on the pile of blankets on the bed until he found his own. He sat down next to John and put the blanket over their legs.

"How long do we have to thit here?" he asked.

"Until mum says I can get up again," John said.

When Mrs. Watson came to collect the two boys for dinner she found them slumped against together in a corner of the room asleep. She sighed happily. What did it matter that she and Mr. Watson would have to struggle to get John and Harry Christmas presents because they were feeding an extra mouth more often than not?

"Boys, wake up. It's time for dinner."


	26. Blankets - Golfechoromeo

Sherlock blinked and he saw it. He forced his eyes open and tried to calm down, but no matter what he tried, nothing got the image out of his mind. He had been so close to saving the man. If only he had solved the case just a little sooner. If only he hadn't wasted his time with gloating to Lestrade about how he had been right all along. If only he had texted John to tell him where he was going so that John could be here with him now.

He could feel it beginning to well inside of him. The tremors. The shakes. The nausea. His left arm twitched with the desire to use. No, he mustn't. John would never forgive him. But how else could he cope? John would understand. John _had_ to understand. After what Sherlock had just seen.

He blinked. Man with terror filled eyes. Begging for help. Consumed in an explosion as the bomb he was strapped to was detonated. The heat. The blaze.

Sherlock gasped, trying to suck air into his lungs, but nothing was happening. The rational part of his mind was telling him what was happening to him, but he turned it off, the overwhelming feeling of being useless and failing seizing him entirely.

John. He needed John. But John was at the flat decorating for Christmas with Mrs. Hudson. He had no idea where Sherlock had gone off to. He had not told John about the case. _Arrogant and foolish and now look where you are? Alone and_... Another twitch in his left arm.

He needed to move. He needed to find his way home. He needed to leave the scene and force it out of his memory entirely. _You never will. You failed him. You are going to use before you go home because you are weak. You will fail John. What a Christmas present that will be for him. To find you high in the flat._

Sherlock clutched his hands to his head as the shaking began to take over his body. There were flashing lights in the distance. The Yard would be there momentarily. But Sherlock didn't want the Yard. He was afraid to blink. Terrified to let his eyes close. A sudden chill gripped him as his body felt like it was turning to ice.

_I need warmth. I need -_

"John," Sherlock said, the first word he had spoken aloud since the explosion.

"Sherlock," a voice said from behind him as his body was enveloped by a material that was meant to calm him down, but paled in comparison to the sound of John's voice. "Shock blanket," he explained as he sat down on the ground beside the detective.

"But I'm not in-" Sherlock started to say before John interrupted.

"Oh yes you are," John said sternly. "Do you have to be stubborn all the time?"

Sherlock's shakes died down and the urge to use dissipated. "How did you know I was here?" he asked.

"It's a good thing you're an arrogant sod and made sure to tell Lestrade you had been right," John said, looking straight ahead at the smoke that was still billowing. "He called me and picked me up on their way out here. Are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded as he took a breath, air finally filling up his lungs and he allowed himself to blink. He only saw John's face. Pulling the shock blanket closer around his body, he said, "I am now."


	27. Blankets - Anne

 

The fight had been quite violent. 

 

Not physically violent, in the respect that neither Sherlock nor John had thrown punches, but violent in the way they had spoken to each other. They had never faced each other so brutally, and Sherlock could tell that everyone present had been mortified. Molly in particular looked as if she'd rather disappear, and most of what Mrs. Hudson said was concerning the state of her bad hip. Lestrade had just shook his head in frustration, but Sherlock could see just how not good he was behaving all over the older man's face. This wasn't his business. John had started it. Sort of. 

 

_Merry Christmas. Thank you for coming._

 

John had accused him of not feeling, of not loving, of not needing. 

 

Sherlock had accused John of being emotional, clingy, needy.

 

Looking back, he couldn't exactly figure out how the fight had started, or why they were discussing turning John's old bedroom into additional lab space for Sherlock. All he knew was that John had stormed off to the spare bedroom upstairs after all the people had finally left their Christmas Eve party, instead of slinking into Sherlock's room for the night with endearing awkwardness. They would not be sleeping together on Christmas Eve this year. Clearly. 

 

They slept in Sherlock's room because it was easier. 

 

They slept in Sherlock's room because Sherlock was not the type of man to impede upon John's personal space upstairs. 

 

They slept in Sherlock's room because John still needed a lot of personal space, and neither of them wanted to talk about it.

 

Sherlock was angry because John was distant when the detective wanted him closer. John was angry because Sherlock was too demanding. Although that was not what they yelled at each other. 

 

Regardless of the real reasons, Sherlock had realized within a few minutes that all of the insults hastily thrown were getting out of control, and yet he couldn't stop.They had torn each other apart with decreasing levels of subtlety in front of all their friends, and now they really were apart. He hadn't really meant it when he had joked about converting John's area into more room for himself, although he wasn't entirely sure why it had made John so instantly angry. Didn't the soldier understand that Sherlock was only trying to get him closer? Didn't the solider realize that Sherlock was essentially asking him to move in downstairs? 

 

The guests had all been confused by John's outburst of anger and Sherlock's following cruelty. Reasonably so. Sherlock didn't care about the guests. 

 

He climbed into his bed in a sulk, stubborn as always and bitter as a lemon. John could sleep by himself if that was what he wanted. John could keep his bloody room at the top of the stairs all to himself and there would be no more bed sharing of any sort any longer.

 

Of course, Sherlock couldn't exactly sleep alone, not after months of sleeping sprawled out over the doctor, who was actually quite a clingy sleeper. He was restless, thirsty, and cold, and no amount of water or blankets seemed to do much good. Once he thought he had gotten comfortable, he had had to work himself out from under his mound of bedding to use the restroom and it had seemed pointless to try to reach the same level of comfort again afterwards. Just when he was about to retire to his chair for a night of sleepless turmoil, perhaps with the comfort of a case file, he realized that the bedroom upstairs must be lacking blankets given the quantity he currently had laying unused on his bed. Which meant that John must be cold. 

 

John couldn't be cold. John needed to be warm. Always. They didn't talk about John's past, but Sherlock had learned very early on that heat was important. Heat was safe. Heat was integral.

 

And so, like a responsible flatmate, Sherlock gathered up two of the best blankets, stomped up the stairs, and deposited his offering at the foot of John's bed. 

 

"Merry Christmas," he growled, spinning on his heel and heading back to the stairs. 

 

John had either had the same trouble falling asleep, or had woken up due to Sherlock's loud procession up the stairs. Either way, he stared at the detective in surprise for a long moment and then, just as the man was about to leave, burst into laughter. 

 

"Sherlock, you aren't really going to bother going back down the stairs, are you? Just kip with me tonight." 

 

"I have  _things_ to do." 

 

"No, you don't. Now come here, you git." Sherlock felt a weak smile break through his stubbornness at that, and it was with plenty of showy disdain that he settled himself down on John's bed within a nest of blankets. "I thought you brought those for me," John teased, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist. 

 

"You can't prove that. Perhaps I simply intended to sleep up here and brought them for myself." 

 

"Git. Can't believe you told everyone that you wanted to turn my room into lab space."

 

"I  _do_. Your room has no use."

 

"Nobody else knows that."

 

"So?" Did John want to keep the bed sharing a secret? He was aware that their relationship was a bit unusual, but it wasn't as if anything particularly damning had occurred between them. In fact, nothing had happened between them, except the mutual development of more consistent sleep patterns. It was, however, acceptable if John wanted to keep their living situation secret; Sherlock wasn't intending on divulging personal information anyway. Just as he thought he was finally coming to terms with the other man's side of the argument, John shook his head at Sherlock as if he was a lunatic. When he still received no response, the soldier sighed pensively, running a hand back and forth through his hair with the realization that he would once again have to explain something to his socially challenged flatmate that should be obvious. 

 

"It makes it look as though you're kicking me out, you idiot." Sherlock turned his head from where it was resting on John's chest to meet the soldier's eyes, a quizzical look on his face. 

 

"Why would I ever do that?" John seemed satisfied enough with that answer, as his shoulders instantly lost some of their tension and his breathing gradually deepened. Sherlock relaxed as well, grateful that the tension was gone, and inching his way up John's body until his curls were tickling the other man's nose. "Who would buy the milk?" At that John pulled a blanket over Sherlock's face in playful objection, giving him an affectionate kiss on the head when the moron had finally worked himself free. 

 

"Thank you for the blankets, you git."


	28. Mike Stamford's Christmas Party - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is Mike Stamford's Christmas Party. Can you imagine Sherlock at one? Phew.
> 
> AND I just came home from seeing the Desolation of Smaug and JFC. HELP US ALL.

It was with a lot of pestering, convincing and flattering that John had got Sherlock to go to Mike Stamford's Christmas party, and now that they were there he wished he hadn't. Sherlock was being a pain. Every possible rude remark that could be said had been said, and yet he still managed to find variations that he shared with glee.

"Sherlock, stop," John finally said.

  
"I don't want to be here," Sherlock said, looking at John accusingly. It _was_ John's fault that he was there. In the end, listening to John complain and whine about wanting him to go to the party had made the less painful and annoying option seem like agreeing to go.

  
John took a breath and held it. They hadn't been a couple for that long and they were still finding the ground under their feet. He thought it might have been nice to go together to a party. Evidently, he had been all wrong. "Just dance with me and then we'll go," John said, inclining his head toward the space Mike had cleared for dancing. A few people were already there, dancing to pop version of Christmas songs.

  
"No," Sherlock said, looking offended by the very suggestion. "You cannot be serious."

  
"I'll dance with you," a woman's voice came. It was Sarah Sawyer. John had taken her out to one of his nights out with Mike and they'd all become friendly.

  
John finally exhaled his breath. "Cheers, Sarah. You mind, Sherlock?" he asked.

  
Sherlock almost laughed. This woman was not nearly as interesting and clever as he was. He had nothing to fear. "By all means, John," he said in a tone that implied he pitied both of them for being foolish enough to bounce ungracefully to music in someone's living room.

  
"See you at home, Sherlock," John replied. He took Sarah's hand and led her away. Last Christmas by Wham! started playing and John laughed. Sherlock saw him starting to talk with enthusiasm. _Probably a story about when he danced to it last. Predictable, John_ , Sherlock thought. He looked on with distaste as Sarah laughed and touched John's arm as she did.

  
The lyrics of the song were rubbing Sherlock the wrong way, too. The last Christmas had been the one during the case of The Woman. John had taken a date to their Christmas party. Sherlock had been sure to cause the premature end of it. John had been upset with him then. And he was upset with him now.

  
Now Sarah was talking and she still hadn't taken her hand off John's arm. She was gesturing with her other hand and John was intently watching it until he seemed to get the joke and threw his head back to laugh. Horrible jealousy bubbled in Sherlock's stomach. It was all John's fault. If he hadn't insisted they go to the party, Sherlock wouldn't be seeing this and feeling the way he was.

  
"You look like a thunder cloud," Mike said. He was the only one at the party besides John who still had any desire to interact with him.

  
Sherlock looked at him. _Approximately half a glass of wine away from drunk. He'll have a hard time sleeping tonight from heartburn, judging by the amount of food I've seen him consume._ "Don't I always?" he replied.

  
Mike laughed. "Fair enough, Sherlock. You know, I take credit for you and John. I do. I introduced you and he's made you..." Mike cleared his throat when he saw the scathing look on Sherlock's face. "Well. I'm off for another glass of wine. You should dance."

 _  
So should you,_ Sherlock thought, looking at Mike's portly figure. But he didn't bother speaking it. He was too preoccupied with watching how comfortable John was with Sarah. He found himself thinking about whether or not they'd had sex. It had seemed unimportant before; but if Sarah wanted a Christmas shag now, surely it was a risk factor for John cheating if there was a memory of what sex with her was like.

  
Completely unacceptable.

Sherlock moved forward, took Sarah by the wrist and removed her hand from John's arm and then placed his body between theirs.

"Sherl-" John started hotly with a very upset look on his face. Sherlock interrupted him by simply shutting him up with kiss after kiss. Not soft kisses either. John thought he might bruise. He pushed Sherlock off and looked up at him with a question on his face. Sherlock stared back with his usual intensity.

"I will dance with you," Sherlock said when John didn't speak.

"Thought you didn't want to," John replied immediately. "I don't want to dance with you either, so it's fine. You just go home. I'm fed up with you."

"No."

"Yes."

" _No._ " A new song started playing. And Sherlock smirked and tilted his head to the side. He pushed his lower lip out a little and widened his eyes innocently. "Fitting song."

John snorted and then started laughing. "Is it?" he asked, putting his hands on Sherlock's hips.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said as he started swaying his hips to the sounds of Mariah Carey wailing. "All I want for Christmas is you. To dance with me."

For someone so musically inclined, Sherlock was a terrible dancer. It helped a bit when John whispered to him to pretend he was on a case and impersonating someone who could. Sherlock lost some of the stiffness in his back and even managed to smile for a moment. He noted there was no chat between them like there had been between John and Sarah. It pleased him. Conversation could be so meaningless. The way John was smiling at him was not.

 

 

"I did that," Mike Stamford said to the group of people he was talking to.

"Good luck to poor Watson," one of their old uni friends said.

"He's made Sherlock better, but Sherlock's made him more himself again," Mike said. He'd had more than the half of glass wine needed to get him sloshed and he couldn't help the huge grin on his face. "Much better together than apart."

"You're drunk."

 


	29. Mike Stamford's Christmas Party - Golfechoromeo

__  
Why was he here?  Of all of the places he could be, all of the research and experiments he could be doing, why had Sherlock agreed to attend Mike's Christmas party?  The holiday held no importance to him, as it seemed to for everyone else in the world. _Sentiment.  Dull_.  What was so special about Christmas?  
  
More than that, the party was two weeks prior to the holiday and yet Sherlock watched as people wished each other a _Merry Christmas_ as if it were their last chance to say it and the holiday would end at midnight.  He leaned against the wall and despised all of them, except for Mike, the only one in the room who he would even consider himself relatively friendly with.  Sherlock's eyes followed as people in hideous Christmas jumpers and Santa hats moved around, greeting each other, kissing cheeks.  A few of the young women showed up in matching elf costumes with skirts that were far too short for anyone to be wearing.   
  
"Who invited the Grinch?" someone nearby asked, raising his cup to indicate Sherlock.  
  
"I guess Mike is friends with him?" the woman beside him said questioningly.  
  
"Right," the man replied with a roll of the eyes.  "Because old Ebeneezer Scrooge could be friends with anyone."  He and the woman laughed and moved over to the table of food.  
  


Sherlock felt himself retreating inward as he leaned against the wall and brought his cup to his mouth to take an exceptionally long sip of his exceptionally strong drink.  Mostly whiskey, little ginger ale.  If he was going to make it through this party, he would need to be buzzed at least.  _Why even bother staying?  Just go back to your dormitory._ But something was keeping him there that he couldn't quite put his finger on.  

 

The door opened as the person in front of him moved at just the right time.  Sherlock had a perfect view of the young man and woman walking in together.  He forgot he was supposed to be sullen.  He forgot he hated everything at that sodding party.  The only thing that mattered was that sandy hair and those blue eyes and that smile as the young man gave Mike a friendly hug in greeting. 

_Go up to him.  Say something.  Introduce yourself.  He looks about three years older.  Holds himself well. Stands at parade rest.  Army trained.  His eyes are not hardened.  He's yet to be deployed.  And those muscles.  They're defined even through that ridiculous jumper that looks quite good on him.  Think of a question to ask.  Is he going to be deployed to Afghanistan or Iraq?  How long does he have before he has to go?  Will he be around for Christmas?  Does he want to leave this party and go somewhere more private?_

Sherlock did and yet asked none of these things as he continued to lean against the wall and drink.  His eyes never left the man as he observed.  The woman he was with was clearly a relative.  They had the same nose and hair colour.  Siblings most likely.  The man checked his phone and then in an absentminded manner, placed his phone down on the table beside him. He and Mike were in a very engaged and what seemed to be humorous conversation.  Sherlock wanted to be a part of it.  He wanted to be included.  He wanted that man to be looking at him and laughing happily.  He wanted to be the reason for that man's happiness. 

 

Downing the rest of his drink in one gulp, Sherlock meandered over towards Mike, talking to him under the guise of needing a fresh whiskey ginger.

"Mike," he asked, "Sorry to interrupt, but I believe you need another bottle of ginger ale."  Sherlock knew fully well that there were two bottles already out.  

 

"Oh really?" Mike asked.  "I'll get right on that.  Oh, Sherlock.  Do you know John?  John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes."

John Watson.  _John Watson_.  The name played around in his head and danced happily, bouncing from wall to wall.  John. 

 

Sherlock turned to the young man and extended his hand.  "Pleasure," he said.

John looked at Sherlock and smiled.  It was different than the one Sherlock had seen him give to Mike.  There was something fascinating and entrancing about it and Sherlock found it difficult to look away.  

 

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock," John said, cheerfully. 

Sherlock was about to bring up something else, ask about where John was to be stationed, when a voice called, "Oi! Watson! You and Harry get over here!"

John nodded.  "Enjoy your night," he said happily. 

"Yes, and a merry two weeks before Christmas to you," Sherlock said, instantly feeling foolish.

But John laughed, and it wasn't the usual laugh people had around Sherlock where they were laughing at him for being different.  It was genuine and Sherlock found himself all the more transfixed.  John nodded at him and grinned one last time before moving over to the man who had summoned him. Mike gave Sherlock a strange and confused look before moving to the kitchen.  

 

Sherlock's eyes fell to John's phone on the table and he was seized with a sudden impulse.  He lifted the phone and added a new contact.  He didn't want to use his name, so he typed in _Mike Stamford's Christmas Party_.  He typed in his number and saved it before returning to the home screen.  Mike was walked back towards him and Sherlock held out the phone. 

 

"Your friend John left this behind," he said, handing Mike the phone. 

"Thanks," he said.  "Sherlock, why don't you go and give it-"

But Mike was being called by someone else in some sort of appetizer emergency and Sherlock made his exit out the front door, smirking to himself.  If John found his name in his phone and texted him, then he would be worth everything that Sherlock was envisioning for them both at that moment. 

Two weeks later, on Christmas Eve, Sherlock was sitting in Speedy's as his phone buzzed. 

[11:03] Whose number is this? JW

[11:04] We've met once. SH

[11:05] I've met a lot of people once. JW

[11:07] Glad to know I didn't make such a lasting impression on you then.  It's only been two weeks and now it would be acceptable to wish one a Merry Christmas. SH

[11:09] Sherlock Holmes. JW

[11:09] Merry Christmas. JW

[11:10] Merry Christmas, John Watson. SH


	30. Mike Stamford's Christmas Party - Anne

Sherlock really didn't want to go to Mike Stamford's Christmas party. He had just finished moving into his new flat-- a nice place on Baker Street-- and he wasn't particularly in the mood to get wasted, which was clearly the purpose of such a gathering. However, as he took a long shower to rid his body of the grime associated with moving, Sherlock figured he might as well show up, if only to grab a beer and leave. His attendance would certainly appease his socialite brother, and Mike had mentioned he had a friend who might be interested in sharing Sherlock's new flat. He dressed in a tight red shirt and well-fitted trousers and caught a cab to Mike's place, lips pursed with a curious mixture of distaste and indifference as he prepared himself for a night of stupidity. Every time he went out, he seemed to be faced with the same problem.

Sherlock sat down on the couch nearest to the drinks once he arrived. He had showed up a bit late and Mike was nowhere to be found. He was, however, graced to meet a young lady who introduced herself and then promptly vomited a very green liquid into a potted plant. Lovely. The conversation was tepid at best, and everyone else was there to get drunk, and Sherlock realized that he fully intended on bringing someone home with him. He was also considering getting drunk himself, if only to mitigate his intense boredom, but figured that probably wouldn't be the best way to meet a potential flatmate. Who was the bloke anyway? Mike could have at least given him a name. 

 

After ten more minutes, Sherlock retreated to the kitchen for something strong. Perhaps whiskey. If worse came to worse, he could get wasted and go home with someone for a quick shag. That wouldn't be a complete waste of the night, although he really had showed up with a more important purpose in mind. Damn party. Damn Christmas. Everyone looked so  _happy_. Sherlock comforted himself with the fact that depression would attack most of them once the holiday season was over and he wouldn't have to find himself face to face with pointlessly rosy cheeks and sincere smiles. 

 

The first thing he noticed when he entered the kitchen was that John Watson was there grabbing a beer. He knew John from his first year Chemistry class in uni almost ten years prior, but he didn't feel obligated to start a conversation with the bloke. John was a few years older than him, the class had been large, and they barely knew each other. Besides, ten years was a long time and John had been the captain of the rugby team; rugby was not and had never been Sherlock's area. 

 

"Merry Christmas. Care to pour me a drink?" John asked, suddenly close enough that Sherlock could feel warm breath on his neck. Was John no longer interested in beer? Clearly not. In fact, his sights seemed more set on Sherlock himself and the whiskey simply through association. 

 

John Watson was quite an attractive bloke. His voice was decidedly seductive, perhaps because he had already been drinking, but it was feeling the puffs of air against his bare skin that really made Sherlock squirm. "I'm John Watson. We had Chemistry together in uni about a decade ago, now that I think about it… I certainly wasn't expecting to see you." 

 

"Mm. Sherlock Holmes. I'm not here for the party. I don't object to having a few drinks, though." Sherlock filled John's cup with a polite smile, curiosity perked by John's unnecessary attention. "And you? Do you go to such events often?" 

 

Sherlock knew the answer was yes. At least the answer had been yes when they had gone to school together, although John didn't seem like the type to /enjoy/ such impersonal parties now that Sherlock was seeing him in the scene. Regardless of whether John had enjoyed himself, they both knew that social contact was extremely important to those with John's specific friends and social standing. The other boy had certainly gone to rugby team parties when he had led the team, and he had certainly dated his fair share of gorgeous woman. Sherlock moved a bit closer, finishing off his own glass and pouring himself another. John shrugged, looking into the living room with disdain before returning his gaze to Sherlock. 

 

"Not anymore." 

 

"I see. I wasn't keen on coming either," Sherlock responded to the unspoken opinion in John's answer rather than the content.

 

A shiver ran up John's spine from the intensity of their eye contact, although Sherlock was the one finally forced to look away to refill John's glass again, lifting his own and throwing what remained in that one down too. Some of the alcohol ran down his chin as it escaped his lips, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. "Although, I'm starting to be glad I did." Also starting to get drunk. 

 

Sherlock was very good at holding his alcohol, considering his size, but he hadn't eaten all day and he had been drinking ceaselessly since his entrance into the kitchen. John's eyes were even more beautiful up close. Mm. And he had figured out this boy before. He had figured out _everything_ when they had been in class together and it made this meeting all the more interesting. _Abusive father. Absent/dead mother. Alcoholic homosexual brother. Trust issues. Abandonment issues. Childhood PTSD._ Sherlock realized he could say it all out loud, but he didn't. He was enjoying the way that John was looking at him.

 

However, Sherlock was significantly more drunk within the following fifteen minutes, and the liquid courage began inducing him to say things he otherwise wouldn't, especially to someone he ostensibly wanted to coax into bed. 

 

"I wasn't aware you had joined the army," Sherlock finally remarked aggressively. He was drunk, but that didn't mean he couldn't tell what John Watson had been up to since graduation. John was clearly a soldier. Military tan, military posture, military confidence. Typical. Although it was quite an odd career choice after going to such a good university. The other boy was also exuding /fake/ confidence, which made Sherlock think that he hadn't been back in London long, and that he hadn't had time to adjust. He also had every reason to believe that John had been recently injured in combat by the way he was holding himself, that he had been permanently relieved of his duties by the look in John's eyes, and that he was indubitably under the care of a psychologist to cope with all of the above. A career over before John had reached his prime. Unfortunate. Very interesting though. Sherlock poured them both more alcohol and set the bottle on the table with a flourish, diverting his attention to his companion once more and looking over the soldier again. God, he really wasn't bad looking. Not at all.

 

"Bad?" John asked. All of his confidence was fake indeed. John Watson looked like he felt itchy in his own skin, although that could be because of the unidentified wound. 

 

"No. Of course not." Recently returned from overseas? Living on an army pension? Sherlock could logically conclude that John was actually the friend that he was there to meet. Why hadn't he noticed it before? "In fact, I think I'm going to take you home with me," he teased lightly, face flushed with drink and excitement. 

 

"I'm not gay," John protested half heatedly, not mustering up the energy to take so much as a step away from Sherlock.

 

"Of course you aren't. I'm assuming you're in need of accommodations though. It wouldn't hurt you to come take a look at my flat." John moved his hands to Sherlock's waist almost subconsciously and tugged, destroying the mere centimetres of space between their bodies and obliterating any effect his previous declaration had made. "Besides, John Watson, I'm not assuming you have Christmas plans." 

 

"I'm supposed to go over to my sister's tomorrow afternoon." Sherlock pressed his thigh between John's legs, unsurprised to feel that the other man was clearly erect. He raised his eyebrow in mock shock, but stayed right where he was.

 

"Come home with me." 

 

"Okay." The answer came immediately, although Sherlock could see how nervous John was about it.

 

"Move in with me." 

 

"Sherlock…"

 

"John, move in with me." 

 

"You're a bully." John ran a hand through his hair before pulling Sherlock just a bit closer. "Why should I?"  _So I can take care of you. Obviously._  


 

John's gaze was wary, and Sherlock brought his face as close to the other man's as he could without making some sort of contact. Sherlock knew it wouldn't be difficult to banish the remaining hesitation. John wanted him.

 

"I'm in need of an assistant." 

 

"What do you do?"

 

"Unimportant. I know you need somewhere to live. I have a spare room. _Move in with me_." There was a long pause, in which John began to blush, and Sherlock took the opportunity to lean in and steal a kiss.  _I will not hurt you_.

 

"Okay… God, Sherlock. Okay." 

 


	31. Christmas Baking - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is Christmas Baking. A very enjoyable subject, if you ask me.

 

John and Mrs. Hudson had been baking and chatting for over two hours now and it was beginning to really grate on Sherlock's nerves. Their insipid holiday cheer was putting Sherlock in an awful mood in its relentlessness and yet he was trying to be patient and not tell them how childish they were being.

Mostly because he liked biscuits and gingerbread but also because John had been in a foul mood lately (Sherlock had deduced it to sexual frustration) and his cheeriness now was the 'Christmas miracle' Sherlock had wanted (especially as the shift in John's mood hadn't included having sex with someone).

"Shall we do one more batch, Mrs. H? Maybe Sherlock can hand them out to his homeless network," John said. Sherlock heard both him and Mrs. Hudson fall apart in giggles.

"What's so funny about that?" Sherlock barked. He liked his homeless network. Many of them were cleverer than most and Sherlock had a soft spot in his heart for them all.

"You in an apron," John said through his laughter. There was the sound of a wooden spoon clattering to the floor and renewed laughter.

"Oh, can you imagine, dear? A _frilly_ one," Mrs. Hudson said. 

 

Well, that was quite enough.

 

Sherlock stormed up from the sofa and stood scowling in the doorway to the kitchen. John took one look at him and lost it completely. He had to hold his stomach from the ache of laughing so hard and tears were forming in the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes until they were thin slits and his face was one of a pouty child. Mrs. Hudson, a brave woman in all aspects of her life, untied the apron she was wearing and ran over to Sherlock and threw it over his head with a frightened giggle. Sherlock looked down at himself with a red and white apron (which was, he saw in horror, frilly) over his well pressed suit. He was dumbstruck by what Mrs. Hudson had done to him. He felt incredibly degraded. He was a learned man with mountains of knowledge and yet there he stood in a flour stained apron. And John was laughing at him, looking happier than he had for days. Sherlock was terribly torn between wanting John to be happy and wanting to come out on top.

Of course his pride won. He didn't want to be dumbstruck. He wanted _them_ to be dumbstruck. And what was the best way of going around that?

Only Sherlock's mind was able to make the connections and associations needed to come to the conclusion that the best way to shut them both of was for Sherlock to kiss John. Later, Sherlock had been forced to admit to himself that it wasn't all logic that had led him to walking up to John and pressing their lips together. Sentiment and attraction had had their parts to play.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson said, the laughter dying from her face.  
  
 _Good,_ Sherlock thought, smug that his plan had worked.

" _Oh!_ " Mrs. Hudson said again, a littler louder when John grabbed two fistfuls of Sherlock's suit jacket and responded to the kiss.

The kiss lasted forever and ended immediately. At least it felt like it.

 

"You got flour on my suit, John," Sherlock said

"That's a shame. Want me to take it off for you?" John said with a smirk.  
  
 _Oh. The sexual frustration was because of me,_ Sherlock realised.

"Oh _dear_. Boys, I'm glad the dams have broken but please wait until I've gone," Mrs. Hudson said, starting to clear up the kitchen and looking worriedly at the timer showing there was still a minute or two left until the last batch of biscuits were done.

The seconds ticked by and Mrs. Hudson nearly tore the pan out of the oven when the timer rang. She didn't bother saying goodbye as she left. As soon as she got downstairs she put the headphones Sherlock had got her last Christmas and listened to the radio.

John had indeed taken Sherlock's suit off but then he'd proceeded to cover Sherlock's body in hand prints of flour. Sherlock hadn't minded. He had enjoyed it very much.

And he had definitely enjoyed the row they had when, a few days later, he handed John the bill from the dry cleaners.


	32. Christmas Baking - Golfechoromeo

John walked into the door and immediately smelled smoke.  The overwhelming scent of something burning (and something that had been burning for what smelled like hours) wafted down to the front door and assaulted John's senses.  
__  
Christ, he thought in terror, his soldier's brain immediately leaping to one conclusion:  fire.  Taking the stairs two at a time, John flew up, desperate to assess the damage and to, most importantly, ensure that Sherlock was safe and away from any danger.  As John pushed open the door, a white smoke billowed out and he began to cough.  
  
"Sherlock!" John called out, his voice anxious, but strong and clear, needing his best friend to answer him. 

"Yes?" Sherlock responded, his voice coming from the kitchen and, impossibly enough, _bored_.  
  
John moved in and saw a tray of cookies, or what he could only assume had once been cookies before being burned to charred embers vaguely resembling Christmas trees.  The oven door was open to release the smoke that had built up inside as the cookies began their slow descent to ashes.  
  
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" John asked as he began to wave his hand to try and dissipate the smoke.  He ran over to the windows and opened them wide, trying to aerate the flat.  Sherlock, meanwhile, had not moved from his stool, looking steadfastly into his microscope.  John was fuming as he looked at what Sherlock was examining with such focus.  "Are you researching fucking burned _cookies_?" John shouted, his fury and temper bubbling over.

  
"Yes," Sherlock said, a hint of impatience in his voice.  "I am researching the properties of extreme temperatures on different sugar str-"

"I don't fucking care _what_ you're researching, you clot!" John yelled, moving forward and dumping the tray of cookies into the bin.  "You could have burned down the flat!"  
  
"Nonsense," Sherlock said.  "It was a controlled experiment.  Perfectly safe.  I was here next to the oven the entire time."  He continued to look at the slide, making John even more enraged at the implication that he could not be bothered with John's anger.  
  
"What the hell inspired this?" John yelled, trying not to push the microscope away to force Sherlock to look at him.

"I burned the first batch of Christmas cookies tried to bake for you," Sherlock said simply.

John paused.  His anger ebbed.  "What?" he asked, perplexed.

"Don't worry," Sherlock said as he adjusted the magnification on his microscope.  "The second batch came out well.  They're over there," he said, lifting a hand and pointing lazily towards the counter.

John turned and saw a plate full of perfectly cooked cookies in perfectly shaped Christmas trees, adorned with dollops of jam. 

"Sherlock," John said slowly, a small grin forming on his lips as he turned.  "You're a colossal git."

John caught a glimpse of a smile on Sherlock's face as he switched slides.  "You're welcome."


	33. Christmas Baking - Anne

Sherlock knew all about John Watson.

He was blond, lower middle class, normal, stupid, boring, completely undeserving of his time and attention... attractive, kind, quite intelligent, the bloke Sherlock had been silently interested in for years.

He had grown up with John. He had always liked John. Unfortunately, John considered him a freak. Just like everyone else did. What was he expecting anyway? John was well-liked, a powerful athlete, and apparently a good kisser, which was why Sherlock didn't know how he was going to successfully bake Christmas cookies for Home Ec with Rugby-Boy without giving himself away. Luckily, they just needed to prepare something mediocre without killing each other (and hopefully pass). Then they could spend the rest of their last year of secondary separate, and /then/ Sherlock could go off to Cambridge and John could go off to University of London.

Or wherever he was going (that's where he was going, Sherlock had checked).

Sherlock, the machine, and Golden-Boy Watson, separated permanently.

As soon as John arrived at Sherlock's house (estate) to bake the bloody cookies. Where the hell was he?

Sherlock bounded to his feet as he heard a knock, remembering to compose his face before he deigned to open the door to let John into his home.

"Bit late, don't you think?" He slammed the aforementioned door closed behind John after he had let him in, slammed the assigned recipe down on the kitchen table in a similar manner, and quickly donned his usual irritated smirk. Not only was the recipe they were assigned longer than the one for chocolate chip cookies (which Molly and Greg had been assigned), but it had some additional elements to it (namely waiting two hours for the sugar cookie dough to set). All nonsense of course. They were already in silent agreement that that particular part of the recipe be overlooked. Right?

Sherlock opened all the cabinets haphazardly, looking for the required ingredients with a flurried irritation about him, and finally setting flour, sugar, eggs, baking soda, and vanilla on the counter. That should about cover it... He was probably missing something. Whatever. They could figure it out as they went.

"Um... So... John Watson. You don't happen, by any chance, to be a baker, do you?" It was a joke, but he realized as soon as he left his lips that his face was much too cold for him to earn him a laugh. John looked back at him with a confused look on his face before a small smile graced his lips.

"No, not exactly. You're the Chemistry genius. Can't be too different." Sherlock smiled in return, relieved that his attempt at comfortable conversation hadn't been completely rebuked. Apparently John wasn't like his other teammates. Moran and Anderson. Peers who constantly teased him, and who had been quite frankly abusing him for his entire time in the public school system. The only members of the rugby team who had ever bothered to give him the time of day were Mike Stamford and Greg Lestrade; but they were acquaintances at best, and Greg only put up with him because the attractive older boy had a personal, private relationship with Mycroft. What was he supposed to do in his current situation then? Certainly it was his personal responsibility to avoid running his eyes over the boy before him, to cease undressing him with needy pale eyes.

John was... quite handsome. Gorgeous really.

Perfectly muscular. Intelligent. Kind. Clearly struggling with personal problems, just as Sherlock was.

It was becoming clear that this assignment was going to be torture. He had been interested in John for years, _silent_ years of course, and all of his silence was making his heartbeat pick up speed now that John was so close. This was ridiculous; they were almost graduated and there was no need for fraternization or a new friend. John didn't _want_ to be his friend. John just wanted to pass Home Ec and finish secondary school once and for all. Well, until university... "Just help yourself," he barked when John came much too close to him and began sorting through the ingredients. Sugar cookies. Christmas cookies. No problem... _Shit_. He was screwed... What did he know about John? The other boy was smart indeed, bloody likable, and extremely good-looking. That was more than enough to go on, more than enough of the reason to snap at this unsuspecting stranger for seemingly no reason.

John shied back just slightly, but resumed his investigation of the ingredients when Sherlock appeared to recover from being spooked at his sudden proximity. Odd git, that one.

"Sherlock, we need baking powder, not baking soda. And milk."

"One moment…" Sherlock offered John an apologetic look, gathering up the remaining ingredients, before looking away and reading through the recipe for memorization. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively when he thought the other boy wasn't watching him, taking in John with the characteristic thoroughness that most people found a bit shocking. He could at least try to be pleasant. For once. For this boy who had a brilliant arse, and whom he was tempted to snog senseless without warning. _No_. _None of that_. He would be how he always was. He didn't even want an A; he just wanted to pass so he could move on with his life and get away from John before he did something exceedingly stupid. "I see. I suppose it's a bit like... Chemistry." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair awkwardly, watching John's every movement with uncanny patience. He prepared one bowl with flour, baking powder, and salt; and after a moment of double checking the recipe, deposited butter and sugar into another.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he read, although it wasn't because he was deep in thought. He happened to like the way the angles of his face stood out in the light when his eyes were reduced to slits and then pulled open again. Not-Gay John. Whose attention he was still doing his best to acquire.

"Something wrong? Or do you just need reading glasses?" John asked, surprised by the way Sherlock was squinting.

Sherlock was… quite handsome. Gorgeous really. But John wasn't going to think about that.

"Mmhm. Nothing wrong. Just thinking." Sherlock's bright eyes darted up to meet John's and he let a small, unobtrusive smile paint his lips. Yes, everything was just fine. He was a bit frozen, and obnoxiously attracted to the star player on the rugby team, but otherwise everything was fine.

"It's awfully quiet in here," John finally muttered uncomfortably, trying to hide the fact that he had been staring. He was _Not-Gay_. His dad would kill him if he wasn't Not-Gay.

"Parents are gone. Staying alone for a bit." Wasn't Sherlock always alone? It was a safe enough thing to say, though; John was clearly wondering why no one was impeding their process or creating background noise to break the dead silence and extreme tension of their baking. John turned on the electric mixer to cream the butter with the sugar; the whirring broke the silence effectively, but did not manage to relieve the intensity of their interaction.

Sherlock cautiously approached John's bowl, adding milk and an egg as he saw fit until the dough looked about done. Just needed to add the flour… Which John did in wordless understanding. They were almost done. The waiting period loomed before them frightfully, but a few hours was nothing in the grand scheme of things. After all, they had known each other much longer than that.

Sherlock scooped some of the dough into his mouth with his forefinger when John turned off the mixer, breaking into a smile when the sugar hit his tongue. He loved sweets. Had they been cooking anything else, Sherlock would have continued to sulk as if the world was an empty cardboard box, but now… Sugar induced an actual smile? Too much smiling and John might wonder if he really was the sullen boy from class, but surprisingly enough Sherlock wasn't worried about that. He stole some more, dipping his messy fingers into the dough with a small chuckle and devouring the sugary sweetness with the same childlike happiness.

John was watching. He was watching fingers disappear into Sherlock's mouth and it was making him feel a bit hot. Sherlock needed to stop this. John was Not-Gay. Sherlock looked up at the other boy as if he was seeing him for the first time and swallowed thickly as he saw the shockingly lusty look in the other boy's eyes. With a devilish (and no longer childish) grin, Sherlock dipped his fingers back into the dough and dabbed John's nose with it, offering his most charming smile as he darted away.

Which of course made John do the same, staining Sherlock's cheek with their unbaked concoction.

Sherlock wiped the wetness from his face and licked his fingertips clean, darting back to John's side with striking elegance. More fighting. More dough. More mess. They could always make more of what they needed. The cookies hadn't taken more than a half hour to make after all.

He slowed this time, though, gathering more ammunition from the bowl seductively, and walking over to John cautiously. He stopped right in front of the other boy, his limbs relaxed from messing around, and placed the dough to John's lips, pale eyes holding him securely in place. Okay, _that_ was not part of the plan. He almost winced at how obvious his attraction was, and wanted desperately to run to his room to hide (or perhaps offer a rather rude quip to divert John's attention). However, he knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to observe what happened next, or see how John reacted to having Sherlock's fingers in his mouth.

John blushed, but he said nothing, obediently parting his lips for Sherlock's fingers, at which point, Sherlock's serious and calculating face fell away again as he grinned lightly and turned away. He felt utterly embarrassed, but was fairly certain that John wouldn't share this information with anyone. He wiped his fingers on a paper towel, discarding it mechanically and turning to put the rest of the dough in the refrigerator. John would probably laugh at him later for his behavior, if he could get over the shock of having Sherlock's fingers in his mouth. Lovely. Why did it take so bloody long for the dough to set? Sherlock's fingers now tapped the counter impatiently, until John decided to address him.

"So where do you live in this mansion anyway? Got anything illegal hidden away, Holmes?" Sherlock approved of how quickly John bounced back from charged awkwardness to what appeared to be flirting, although he couldn't decide if the tension had diminished or heightened with the subtle mention of his room.

"Nothing strictly illegal. I think I have some wine hidden away if you're interested." Teasing. Joking. Although Sherlock did indeed have a few bottles of alcohol stashed away if only because he enjoyed rebelling. His room was mostly a mess of dead animal parts, various dangerous chemicals, a few attempts at growing cultures, and even a few samples of his own sperm that he had collected the year before and decided to analyze. Nothing revolutionary. Yet. He fully planned on expanding once he had space to work in at Cambridge. Sherlock smiled at John again, hesitating uncharacteristically as he tried to decide whether this near stranger should be presented with the wine in question.

"Um… Wine?" _Yes_. His answer was fucking yes. John couldn't even explain how powerful his desire was to get a bit drunk with Sherlock as they waited for the cookie dough, but he wasn't exactly sure if it was a good idea. "Do you… drink? I've tried a bit at parties, but…" John muttered with a weak smile, admitting his lack of knowledge carefully.

"No. Not really." John was relieved to hear it. He hated feeling inexperienced…

"Oh. Maybe not then? Maybe we can just… talk?" Sherlock was about to say something witty when hot lips covered his own and he had trouble thinking at all. John tasted like sugar and Sherlock instinctively brought his hands to John's arms to hold him in place. _Jesus_. "God, I'm… sorry. I'm not… gay." Sherlock wasn't listening; he was too busy working himself to seated on the kitchen counter and tugging John closer with his legs to demand another kiss. Which John gave him willingly.

"You might want to rethink that. The whole Not-Gay nonsense." Sherlock remarked as he pulled away, lips bright red from all the kissing.

"What do I get if I do?" John murmured, face bright red with embarrassment.

"Hm, I can think of a few things," Sherlock teased with a knowing smile, sliding off the counter and tugging John towards the couch. "After all, we have a few hours before we have to bake the cookies."


	34. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's draw was a Christmas Carol again! And one Golfechoromeo has been looking forward to. Oh! And did you see Mark Gatiss tweeting about Rudolph today? Holy shit conikidink.

" _Sherlock the Red Nosed Consulting Detective_ ," John sang, a look of complete gaiety on his face. " _Had a very shiny nose_."

"Stop it, John," Sherlock said.

" _And if you ever saw it_."  
  
"Stop it, John," Sherlock repeated.  
  
" _You would even say it glows_."  
  
"John," Sherlock said.  
  
" _All of the other Consulting Detectives_."  
  
"I'm the only one in the world," Sherlock said.  
  
" _Used to laugh and call him names_."  
  
"I invented the job, John. I've told you this," Sherlock said.  
  
" _They never let poor Sherlock join in any Detective games_."  
  
"Being a detective isn't a game," Sherlock said.  
  
" _Then one foggy December eve a Sally Donovan came to say_!"  
  
Sherlock gave in. There was no stopping John.  
  
" _Sherlock with your mouth so rude I'm going to punch in the face_."  
  
John did a little jig as he walked to Sherlock, a bag of peas wrapped in a kitchen towel in his hand. He gave it to Sherlock and mimed putting it over his nose.  
  
" _Then all the Yarders loved her, as they shouted out with glee. Sally 'Right Hook' Donovan, you'll go down in history_!"  
  
John chuckled and kept humming, going off to make tea.  
  
"That didn't even make sense, John. Your _clever_ little remake of that song indicates that I had a red nose before Sally took her aggressions about Anderson out on my face. It's not accurate. You're not funny, John."  
  
John didn't agree with Sherlock at all as he collapsed into laughter by the kettle.


	35. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine this happening the night before the Christmas party in s2e1.

__  
"Sherlock dear, come out!" Mrs. Hudson called, holding her wine glass and unable to keep the giddy grin from her face.  This had worked out better than she had thought.  
  
"No!" a grumpy and irate voice called back from behind a closed door that had been very forcefully shut.  
  
Mrs. Hudson held in her laugh, letting only a twinkle of a giggle escape her lips as she took another sip of wine.  "I don't know why he's refusing and being so difficult and so  _Sherlock_  about this," she said with a sigh as she turned towards John.  "It would be different if it were tomorrow night for Christmas when everyone is here, but it's just the two of us!"  
  
"Mmm," John said.  "Too right."  He was standing in the kitchen, his phone held up and positioned so that the instant Sherlock walked out, he could get a picture before Sherlock changed his mind and stormed back into his room.  John smiled, hearing the pacing footsteps going back and forth behind the closed door of Sherlock's bedroom.   _He's nervous_.  The thought made him grin.  The brilliant detective was always the first to criticise and ridicule others and now, because of a wager that John knew he'd win, Sherlock would be the one who felt embarrassed.   
  
"Sherlock," John called out.  "Come on now.  You know it won't be that bad."  
  
This seemed to have broken the seal on Sherlock's vow of silence with the exception of shouting 'No' in refusal of leaving his room.  
  
"Won't be that bad?" he shouted through the door.  "Do you  _realise_  how I look, John? I look ridiculous.  I look foolish.  I look..."  
  
"Like you're celebrating the holiday," John finished.  "Now stop acting like a petulant child and come out so we can see.  You have to, you know.  You lost the bet."  
  
Mrs. Hudson held her hand over her mouth to try and stop the onslaught of giggles that were threatening to break through.  If Sherlock heard her, he would never leave his room.  "Sherlock Holmes, you come out here this instant!" she said, trying to sound serious, but leaning against John as a fit of silent laughter passed over her.   John couldn't help it.  He began shaking with the exertion of keeping his laughter form being audible. 

"Fine, Sherlock said.  "But for no longer than a minute."

"Ah," John said, pulling himself together enough to be able to respond to Sherlock.  "I'm afraid that wasn't the agreement.  I believe you promised Mrs. H. one Christmas carol played on the violin."

"And I know just the one!" she said, laughing again into John's jumper. 

After another period of silence, John thought he'd need to intervene.  "Hold this," he said to Mrs. Hudson, handing her the phone as he moved forward and stood next to Sherlock's door.  He knocked on it softly.  "Sherlock," John said in what he hoped was a reassuring and coaxing tone.  "The sooner you do this, the sooner it will be over.  And I know you're trying to think of loopholes or ways to get out of this, but there aren't any."  Silence still.  "Sherlock, do this for me," John said, doubtful that the words would work.

The door knob turned and Sherlock stepped out, wearing a pair of Reindeer antlers.  "Let's get this over with," he said bitterly.  "I'm only doing this for you, John.  Let's make that very clear."

John nodded.  "Of course."

He strode through the kitchen, ignoring Mrs. Hudson whose eyes were streaming with tears from holding in her laughter so much.  Sherlock walked over to his violin which was sitting on his desk and said, as he looked out the window and very pointedly  _not_  at either John or Mrs. Hudson, "What song shall it be?"

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said fondly, her voice light and teasing.  "You know very well what song I'm expecting to hear."

With a curt nod, Sherlock raised the violin and bow and turned, facing his admiring and captivated audience.  As he began to play the opening notes to "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer," looking absolutely ridiculous in the antlers, and treating his violin performance as seriously as if it were a grand master recital, John smiled, knowing it was all for him. 


	36. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer - Anne

****

John wasn't allowed in the kitchen. Sherlock had pushed him out quite vehemently, muttering something about delicate lab conditions as he slammed the door shut and settled down by his microscope, lab goggles securely fastened to his face. The doctor was curious about just exactly what his wild boyfriend was doing this time, but knew better than to interrupt. Hell, for all he knew, Sherlock could be catching a kidnapper, or finding a serial killer. Of course, something in Sherlock's eyes said that that wasn't the case this time. And then there was the fact that he had gotten the glassy-eyed, inspired look upon hearing the childish Christmas carol about Rudolph in the cab on their way home from dinner. 

 

But John waited patiently nonetheless, hoping that Sherlock's evening "work" did not include a fire, any strong smells, gun shots, or leaving the flat for that matter, as snow was coming down heavily by this point.

 

His patience was rewarded a half hour later when Sherlock promptly stormed from the kitchen, got behind John, and excitedly shoved him inside. The entire room was dark and John thought Sherlock looked even more feral than usual in his habitat of test tubes and lab equipment. 

 

"Hydrogen peroxide and water," he said in a pleased voice, indicating one of two bowls on the table. "Luminol, sodium carbonate, copper sulphate pentahydrate and ammonium carbonate," he rattled off happily, pointing to the other. John had gone to medical school; he knew what all those chemicals did, right? Sherlock was just moving too quickly for him to process again, so when the detective lifted the first bowl and poured it into the other, the doctor cringed in anticipation. Here it was; the end of his life at the hands of this gorgeous madman. Sherlock pulled him closer to the bowl, which meant as of yet there had been no explosions, no messes, no bad smells (other than the nearly constant smell of chemicals that he had grown quite accustomed to), and John relaxed enough to peer into the remaining bowl to see the solution Sherlock had made.

 

Glowing. The whole bowl was the most captivatingly beautiful thing John could remember seeing in a long time, and he simply held Sherlock close and stared. He gave the other man a peck on the cheek, at which Sherlock pulled his face away in admonishment. 

 

"John, don't look away; you'll miss it." His head snapped forward again, and sure enough, John could see the light was fading quickly. 

 

"What? Why?"

 

"The reaction lasts less than a minute… Unless I'm working with a drastically larger amount of material." John sealed his lips at that, and watched the contents of the bowl dim with a strange feeling of discontent.

 

"Good?" Sherlock asked, finally turning to John when it was clear there was nothing more to see in regards to his Rudolph-inspired Chemistry demo. 

 

"I wish it lasted longer." 

 

"Hm… Well, that one doesn't," Sherlock replied pensively, seeing that John had somehow been more deeply affected by what he had done than he had intended for the other man to be. "But I still mixed the chemicals knowing it would only last a minute or so… There are still merits to investigating impermanent phenomena, especially considered the fact that finding permanent reactions to observe is essentially impossible."

 

"Is that your way of saying nothing lasts forever?" John asked with a small smile, feeling a certain warmth bloom in his chest at the thought of Sherlock Holmes making a philosophical argument due to his scientific observations.

 

"Yes." John edged himself closer to Sherlock, and the detective perceptively realized that the doctor wanted to be hugged before his opportunity passed to provide the desired comfort. He wrapped his arms around his sentimental boyfriend and held him tightly to his chest.

 

"Thank you, Sherlock. It was beautiful," John murmured contently, no longer focused on the very impermanence of all things now that Sherlock was right there holding him.

 

"Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock replied, tenderly nuzzling his face into wispy blond hair. 


	37. I consent to be your best man. Happy Christmas. SH   -Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is - I consent to be your best man. Happy Christmas. SH and ugh my Johnlock feels.

I consent to be your best man. Happy Christmas. SH

John put the phone on the bedside table and stared up at the ceiling. The news should have made him happy but all he felt was his body sinking deep into the mattress as if it were trying to run away from its own existence. Mary lay sleeping next to him, soundly and sweetly like she always did. She was a sweet woman. Quiet and nice, and she had been a pillar of stability in John's life when he had been walking around in his own cloud of misery after Sherlock had died. He owed her everything.

  
Thanks. Great. JW

  
What are you doing? JW

  
Case. Lestrade just called. SH

  
Should I come? JW

  
John waited half an hour for a reply before he realised there wasn't going to be one. He lay awake anyway, in the vain hope. He texted again the following day to ask how it was going and if Sherlock needed any assistance, but there hadn't been a reply. Nor had there been one the following day. John would have worried but Greg sent him updates in the form of texts relating how Sherlock was misbehaving and asking John to please come set him right before everything went down the toilet. John was itching to put his coat on and go, but he couldn't. He felt out of place. He didn't really belong in that life anymore. Nor did he really belong in the one he shared with Mary.

Mary and Sherlock were so different from each other. Sherlock was the opposite from her; rude and loud, and he'd shaken John's life up until it hadn't resembled itself at all. He'd put excitement back in John's life and made him feel alive after his dismissal from the Army had made him feel dead. He owed him everything.

 

Instead of rushing to Sherlock's side, John went to work. Prescribing antibiotics for UTI:s while explaining to others that no, they wouldn't work on the cold or the flu. It was the same thing as he'd done the day before. The week before. The month before. The year before. He was bored. There was nothing to get his blood pumping or anything that needed a great deal of thoughts. It was the daily grind, grinding him down. But he owed this life everything. It had continued to exist after he thought Sherlock had stopped existing.

It was three weeks later when he next heard back from Sherlock.

Case. Baker Street. Come immediately. SH

  
It was the evening before Christmas and John was at a Christmas party hosted by Mary's employers. They'd had a nice day together: they'd woken up and had sex before going their separate ways for the day until it was time to meet for a quick dinner before the party. It was an important party for Mary. John knew it was. But he hadn't even said goodbye before he'd rushed to be with Sherlock.

The case had been everything John hoped it would be. Sherlock had fired off his deductions and then paced around as they repeated the facts and theories to each other. It had been a gruesome murder and John had felt a thrill of excitement to see the corpse. And then there was the thrill of Sherlock figuring it out and the mad chase to catch the perpetrator. There had been a fight and John had got two good swings in before the murderer was knocked down by Sherlock.

They'd thundered up the stairs to 221b at closer to four in the morning, giggling and their skin flushed with exertion.

"That was amazing. _Amazing_ ," John said.

"I'm glad you think so, John," Sherlock said, stoically taking his scarf and coat off. John unzipped his jacket and threw it on his chair.

"The way you knocked the gun out of his hand. Amazing," John said, turning to look at Sherlock with a wide grin on his face. He felt alive. His synapses had been firing and his muscles had been put to good use. And Sherlock was there in all his arrogant, rude and socially deaf brilliance.

They stared at each other in silence. And then Sherlock took a step forward, and John did too.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Don't."

They took the remaining steps that separated them and then they were kissing, hands pulling out shirt tails, pulling on hair and grabbing body parts as if to say _mine, mine, mine._ A trail of clothes was left between the living room and Sherlock's room and they'd fallen naked into bed. They lay on their sides, legs tangled and their lips finding each other again.

They didn't speak; what was there to talk about? Their hands entwined as they kissed with a passion John had never felt before. His cock ached but he paid it no attention, instead taking Sherlock's in hand and stroking it. Sherlock made a high pitched noise that John could not have believed him capable of and arched his back as his cock pulsed. The head of John's cock became wet with droplets of pre-come just from Sherlock's reaction alone, and when he felt long, warm fingers wrap around him he whispered the other man's name with the longing of three endless years.

It didn't take them long to wank each other off. Afterwards, they lay in silence and simply looked at each other. They had three years of looking to catch up on.

John woke up in the same position a few hours later to find Sherlock - rude, loud Sherlock - soundly and sweetly asleep next to him. He smiled. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he whispered.

And then reality hit him like a tonne of bricks.  
 _Mary._

John slipped out of bed and collected his phone from his trousers (that he found on the kitchen floor). Twenty missed called and thirty-six text messages.

I'm sorry. I'm coming home now. JW

He dressed quickly and left his old flat to go to his new.

_What the hell was he supposed to do?_

His new life and old life had collided and the puzzle pieces would not fit together.

Mary had yelled at him for leaving her at the party without a word and then staying out the entire night without so much as a text message to let her know he was alive. She'd been rude and loud, and John had been ashamed because she wasn't yelling at him enough. It didn't help when his phone buzzed with a new text message and he pulled it out even though he was supposed to be listening to Mary shouting.

You left. SH

For her. SH

Come back for me. SH

John closed his eyes and very nearly wept with the new assault of guilt.

He owed them both better than this. How was he supposed to make this choice? He owed Mary for picking him up and dusting him off, for all the dinners they'd shared and the laughs and cuddles. He owed Sherlock for not so much picking him up as kicking his cane out from under him and shoving him into a run when he'd been standing still, for all the mad adventures and childlike giggles.

"I'm sorry, Mary. Of course, I'm sorry. I didn't think," he said. She calmed down. Her good nature wouldn't let anger or disappointment ruin a holiday. They spent Christmas together and New Years. John didn't text Sherlock back and Sherlock didn't text him again.

On January 6, John lay awake waiting for his alarm to go off to wake him up. It was Sherlock's birthday. Sherlock Holmes who was back from the dead. John's one miracle. He had everything he had wanted within his reach. He just had to make a sacrifice to get there.

"Mary. Wake up," he said. She did and looked up at him blearily. "I'm sorry. I have to move back in with Sherlock."

She had yelled again and hadn't accepted what John was saying until he told her what had happened the night of the case. John packed a bag and got a cab after Mary had yanked her engagement ring off her finger and thrown it at him.  
  
Sherlock opened the door and took a step back at the sight of John. His eyes were cold and none of the joy that had been there two weeks earlier was present.  
  
"I'm not with Mary anymore."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I'm sorry for what happened. When I left. Not the bit before that."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I came back for you."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Just like... just like you came back for me."  
  
A crease appeared between Sherlock's eyes and he stepped to the side. John walked in.  
  
John slept in his old room for four nights before Sherlock warmed up to him again and allowed him back in his bed. They stared hungrily into each other's faces again, taking in every wrinkle and line that was the product of three years of aging.   
  
"I won't spend another Christmas without you," Sherlock said once John's eyes had closed.  
  
"Never," John mumbled in return.


	38. I consent to be your best man. Happy Christmas. SH   - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The formatting is all wonky aaaaand I don't have the patience to try to fix it again.

I consent to be your best man.  Happy Christmas.  SH  
  
What?  JW  
  
For the wedding. I will be your best man.  SH  
  
Consider it to be my Christmas present to you. SH

Are you saying this so you don't have to get me an actual gift? JW

Irrelevant.  SH

So I am going to be your best man, then.  SH

Sherlock, we've been through this.  JW

Greg is my best man.  JW

That's a terrible choice. SH

It should be me. SH

That's why I'm telling you I'm consenting to take the role.  SH

Sherlock, you cannot be my best man.  JW

Why not? SH

I thought the best friend was supposed to be the best man. SH

  
Is that not how it is? I thought I was your best friend. SH

You are my best friend, you git.  You know that.  JW

Then why do you not want me to be your best man? SH

Because you can't be the groom as well as the best man.  JW

That isn't how this works. JW

It's absurd that Lestrade would be your best man.  SH

The implication is that he is your best friend.  He is not. SH

Everyone knows you're my best friend, Sherlock. JW

  
That's why I'm marrying you. JW

No, you're marrying me because you I proposed and you accepted. SH  
  
That's a loose interpretation of the word "proposed."  JW

I was kneeling. SH

Over a dead body at a crime scene! JW

And you didn't even ask.  You just said, "We should wed." JW

You said yes. SH

But I should be your best man. SH  
  
Why the sudden interest in this all of a sudden, Sherlock? JW

Lestrade has informed me I am not allowed to go to your stag night. SH

This is unacceptable.  SH

I will be your best man so that I may plan it and attend. SH

Sherlock. JW

Lestrade mentioned strippers.  This is not acceptable. SH

There won't be any.  Don't worry.  JW  
  
Do you promise?  SH

Yes, I promise. JW

Wait.  Who's your best man going to be? JW

You. SH

Sherlock, I can't be your best man. JW

Then I don't want one.  SH

What about Mycroft? JW

Mycroft isn't the best at anything.  SH

Except gaining weight.  SH

Be that as it may, I can't be your best man if I'm marrying you. JW

Fine. SH

Then I'll have Mrs. Hudson stand with me. SH

That will actually be really nice. JW

Can I come to your stag night anyway? SH

Fine. You stubborn arse. JW

Really? SH

Yes.  I give my consent to have you attend.  Happy Christmas, Sherlock. JW

Happy Christmas, John. SH

I still expect an actual present though. SH

Git. JW

Tosser.  SH

I love you.  JW

And I love you. SH


	39. I consent to be your best man. Happy Christmas. SH   - Anne

I consent to be your best man. Happy Christmas. SH

 

Oh? Thank you, Sherlock. Didn't know it was still being considered given how soon the wedding is, but thank you. JW

 

Of course. I couldn't decide if I was going to attend the wedding. SH

 

[delayed] What? JW

 

The wedding, John. You and Mary's wedding. SH

 

I couldn't decide I was going to attend. SH

 

Well, I just assumed you were. JW

 

You are my best friend, Sherlock. Didn't you think you should have mentioned this sooner? JW

 

I've decided to undertake the torture involved with wasting my time standing in a church for a few hours on an otherwise productive Sunday. SH

 

There's nothing more to tell you. SH 

 

Sherlock, shut up. JW

 

What? You didn't exactly expect me to respect this meaningless union that everyone seem so utterly sentimental about, did you? SH

 

And making it right before Christmas just adds to the trite undertones. SH

 

You don't have to come to the wedding, if you don't want to. I can ask Greg to be my best man. JW

 

Lestrade? SH

 

Yes, Greg is his first name, you know. JW

 

I already said I would do it. SH

 

Maybe I don't want you there. JW

 

That's fine. I would rather not be there. Obviously. SH

 

Obviously. JW

 

In fact, I would like to terminate our interaction. SH

 

Sherlock, what are you talking about? JW

 

Our interaction. SH

 

Our friendship? JW

 

Yes. SH

 

Sherlock, fuck you. JW

 

You're moving to Cardiff shortly after the New Year and I will no longer have any professional access to your insignificant skills as an army doctor. SH

 

I didn't know you saw it that way. JW

 

I will do my best not to "interact" with you any longer. JW

 

Excellent, I will plan to be out of the flat tomorrow morning around ten for you to pick up your things and move to Mary's. SH

 

I'm assuming you did intend to actually move out at some point soon, considering your wedding is this weekend. SH

 

I did. I will. JW

 

Did you ever tell her that you've been sharing a bed with your flatmate? SH

 

I did not. JW

 

Hm, interesting. SH

 

Sherlock, she doesn't need to know that. It helped, did it not? JW

 

Helped you. SH

 

Helped you too. JW

 

[delayed] I just never thought you'd actually leave. SH

 

I wasn't planning on leaving. Before you left, that is. JW

 

Nonsense. SH

 

Sherlock, I'm serious. JW

 

I'm assuming you intended to get married at some point, or to otherwise enter into a romantic partnership. You can't honestly have intended to live with your best friend permanently. SH

 

That was the plan. JW

 

I wanted you to stay. SH

 

I wanted to stay. I assumed we would retire together. JW

 

That wouldn't have worked. You can't survive a few weeks without sexual gratification. SH

 

Sherlock, you were just starting to be sweet. Now you're ruining it. JW

 

My apologies. SH

 

[delayed] John, don't marry her. SH

 

Sherlock, of course I'm going to marry her. JW

 

Right. Fine. SH

 

What's bloody wrong with you anyway? JW

 

Sorry. It's nothing. Mary is acceptable. SH

 

I'm sure you'll be quite happy. SH

 

Sherlock… JW

 

I knew your relationship with her was getting... serious. I just assumed you would pick Baker Street. SH

 

You just assumed I would pick you? JW

 

I will not be attending the wedding. SH

 

That's probably best. JW

 

My apologies. SH

 

It's alright. Sherlock, I didn't know you were so jealous. Can't we continue being friends even though I'm married? I was assuming we would still spend Christmas together. JW

 

You chose Mary. SH

 

Because you were dead and I was moving on. Besides, I don't care about Mary the way I care about you. JW

 

I don't understand. SH

 

It's just… different, yeah? JW

 

Mary is the ideal choice.  You would have been very unhappy retiring with me. SH

 

Sherlock, shut up. Text me after the wedding? JW

 

Absolutely not. SH

 

Text me the next day? JW

 

No. SH

 

Text me on Christmas? JW

 

No. SH

 

Sherlock, you can't ignore me permanently. JW

 

I just need time. SH

 

Time for what? JW

 

[no reply]

 

The sexual gratification thing wouldn't have been an issue, Sherlock. I would have been very happy living with you. JW

 

I no longer wish to discuss this. SH

 

God, you git. I don't think I'll ever get over you. JW

 

Excuse me? SH

 

You know what I mean… Cases, being together all the time, your annoying and potentially destructive experiments… JW

 

Oh. Right. SH

 

Right. JW

 

John, you are Not-Gay. SH

 

You're married to your work. JW

 

Not really. The majority of the time I feel like I'm married to you. SH

 

I'm not Not-Gay. JW

 

You're lying. SH

 

I'm serious. JW

 

I can't talk about this anymore. SH

 

Sherlock, it's okay. It's all okay. Nothing changes just because I fancied you a bit. Well, fancy… JW

 

[no reply]

 

I wouldn't have tried anything. JW

 

When you say you fancy me, what are you referring to? SH

 

God, Sherlock… JW

 

Romantic feelings? Sexual impulses? Intense emotional attachment? SH

 

All of the above. Sherlock… I was a bit in love with you when we were working together and would have liked nothing better than to come home and snog you. Seems kind of silly now. JW

 

You aren't anymore? SH

 

God, I don't know… Maybe. JW

 

You're getting married this weekend. SH

 

Yes… JW

 

I'm sure your tux is all laid out and your shoes all shined. SH

 

In a sense. JW

 

Don't marry her. SH

 

This again? Sherlock, you never wanted what I wanted anyway. Which is fine. JW

 

I know it's fine. SH

 

Exactly. JW

 

You could have had that... aforementioned element incorporated into our relationship at any time. SH

 

What are you talking about? JW

 

The snogging. SH

 

Sherlock? Are you okay? JW

 

I can't see you for a while. Think I'm going abroad for the holidays. SH

 

Okay. JW

 

Need to get over you, as you so eloquently put it before. SH

 

… What? JW

 

Don't be an idiot. It doesn't suit you. I love you. Obviously. SH

 

Right. Since when? JW

 

Since we met. Naturally. SH

 

Naturally. JW

 

It's a bit late now, isn't it? SH

 

Yeah, a bit late. JW

 

I wish you the best of luck. SH

 

Thank you. To you as well. JW

 

[delayed] John, do you love her like you love me? SH

 

Well… it's obviously a bit different. We have a different relationship. JW

 

I mean in magnitude. SH

 

[delayed] No, not even close. JW

 

I see. Does she know? SH

 

Yeah, I think so. JW

 

It hurts. SH

 

What does? JW

 

I don't know. Just… this. Painful. SH

 

Yes. JW

 

[delayed] Sherlock, I'm… a bit of a mess. JW

 

What do you mean? SH

 

I'm… crying. JW

 

Can't seem to stop. JW

 

I'm coming home. SH

 

I can't get married. I don't want to get married. JW

 

It's okay. Everything is just fine. SH

 

I want you. I want to be with you. JW

 

John, I think you should talk to Mary, okay? I can call her for you, if you'd like. Send her over. SH

 

Marry her. SH

 

But… JW

 

I wouldn't have mentioned anything if I had known it would cause you such distress. I will be fine. Marry her. SH

 

Will you be fine? JW

 

[no reply]

 

Sherlock, I'm calling off the wedding. I have to call off the wedding. JW

 

[delayed] Really? SH

 

Do you love me? JW

 

Yes. Absolutely. SH

 

Then yes. I am calling off the bloody wedding. I choose Baker Street. JW

 

Is that so? SH

 

Yes. JW

 

I choose Sherlock Holmes. JW

 

You'll spend Christmas with me? JW

 

I look forward to it. SH


	40. Christmas Dinner - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 15
> 
> Today's prompt is Christmas Dinner! Sounds delicious to me.

_Christmas Dinner_

It was the first Christmas after Sherlock had died. John hadn't met Mary and still lived in a vacuum of loneliness. He hadn't had the heart to keep being friends with any of them; Mrs. Hudson, Greg, or Mike. Certainly not Mycroft, although 'friends' might have been a very generous term for what they had been.

John had lost weight again, his old post-war demons returning now that his cure was dead and gone, but he still ate sometimes. He was keenly aware that it was Christmas and that by all tradition he should be having a proper dinner. He knew if he called Mrs. Hudson, she would have invited him over to wherever she was but to see her eyes looking at him with pity and with their shared grief.... John wouldn't be able to bear it.

So on Christmas day, John went out in search of a restaurant or, preferably, a take-away shop. Nothing was open. Everyone was at home with their families, blood or otherwise, and enjoying each other's company. But John walked the streets utterly and completely alone. Sherlock was gone and he'd taken everything with him.

There was just silence now. Silence and darkness and the goddamn vacuum that pressed around him so he felt he might choke.

He went home again and sat on his bed. His leg had started to ache in the winter chill and he couldn't quite remember if it had done the same the previous year. Maybe he'd just been too busy with Sherlock to notice. But there was nothing now to distract him, and so he noticed.   
  
He walked to the kitchen with a little indulgent limp and came back to his bed with an apple in his hand. It was past its prime, he thought, but so was his life. He wondered what had happened; he had been so full of promise. Doctor. Captain in the Army. Sherlock Holmes. An exceptional life in all aspects but now there was just this.  
  
 _Nothing._   
  
Just him, a half eaten apple that he threw in the bin and not even the sounds of people outside his window to keep him company.  
  



	41. Christmas Dinner - Golfechoromeo

This was a situation John had hoped to never find himself in before, nor ever again.  Sandwiched between Sherlock and Mycroft, he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.  The brothers were alternating their glares between each other and the woman sitting across the table.  Greg, meanwhile, was acting as if he were oblivious to the chaos that was about to erupt.   
  
John had known that attending Christmas dinner at the Holmes house was going to be an affair.  Sherlock had warned him that it would turn ugly without a doubt, but a part of John had questioned it.  How bad could it be?  
  
The answer was, of course, very bad indeed.    
  
Everything Mrs. Holmes said was a criticism, either blatant or veiled.   _So, John, has it been any easier to find work in a hospital? I hear the need for them is quite large so I can't imagine why you've been struggling.  John, that's a nice jumper.  It does look a little snug.  Here's the salad.  John, don't check your phone so frequently.  It's rude._  
  
John had never met anyone more rude than this woman, and that included his incredibly arrogant, rude, and abrasive boyfriend.  At least now John could see where Sherlock got it from.    
  
It was about halfway through dinner when Mrs. Holmes had compared Sherlock to Mycroft for the fifteenth time during the meal alone.

 

"Sherlock," she said, twirling her third glass of red wine. "I think this silly case solving business you've been doing is ridiculous.  Although I suppose it is good for your intellect. Mycroft, on the other hand, you seem to be doing very well with your position with the government."

 

The implication was clear to everyone: Mrs. Holmes thought Mycroft was clearly smarter than Sherlock. John immediately reached his hand out to hold Sherlock's to try and calm him. 

 

"Well," Sherlock said. "It's very clear that Mycroft and I are very different. You can see that by our waist size alone."

 

Mycroft blanched and Greg looked angry. But Mrs. Holmes, however, seized the opportunity. 

 

"Mycroft, that reminds me," she said. "I think is time you try a new diet. This one clearly  has failed.  _Tremendously_."

 

It was a disaster. John was sure that either Sherlock or Mycroft would throw an insult at her or that, worse, Sherlock would burn his bridges with the Holmes entirely. John would not let that happen. He cast about for something, anything, to distract them all from the situation at hand. But his own temper was about to flare and he couldn't stop himself. 

 

"Mrs. Holmes," John snapped. "It's fucking Christmas. Can you be kind for  _five_ minutes?"

 

Silence settled around the table. Everyone was stunned, especially John. What had he just done. Sherlock was like at him in a combination or awe and pride. 

 

"Sorry," John said quickly. "I am so sorry. Mrs. Holmes I didn't mean to-"

 

"John. Stop." Her voice was authoritative but not harsh. "It  _is_ Christmas." She lifted her wine glass and raised it towards John. 

 

The mood shifted around the table. It was awkward and seemed forced at first, but by the time dessert was over, Sherlock leaned in to John's eat an whispered, "This was pleasant, as far as Holmes Christmas dinner could go. Good on you for telling her to sod off."

 

John's eyes widened. "I basically told your mother to sod off," he repeated. 

 

"You did," Sherlock said with supreme happiness. "It was the greatest gift you could have gotten me."

 

"So I should return that microscope then?" John asked with a smirk.

 

"Let's not get carried away," Sherlock replied, pouring John another glass of wine while Mrs. Holmes looked on from the kitchen with a smile on her face.


	42. Christmas Dinner - Anne

Violet Holmes did not believe that her son, Sherlock, and this sidekick he had brought home with him were strictly friends, or at the very least that Sherlock simply intended to be his friend. She saw it in the way Sherlock looked at him, the genuine smiles that crossed the sullen face and the Holmesian longing that emanated from his eyes whenever John wasn't watching. His father, Siger, had been the same way with her; inhumanly cold, ostensibly asexual, and unbelievably charming. Looking at the interaction from afar, she could see that Sherlock wasn't really being cold, simply polite, and that his life would not move forward unless John Watson either accepted or rejected him. Furthermore, if John rejected him, it was clear that Sherlock's life would spiral backwards before he regained any forward mobility. 

 

To put it simply, he needed someone now that he was back from the dead.

 

Violet, for one, rather liked John Watson. She liked watching him care for Sherlock, even though they were in an opulent household in which the snobby detective could have whatever he needed at a snap of his fingers, and she certainly liked watching how uncomfortable he was around money and yet how unimpressed he was by it. For while John had complimented her home upon arrival, his eyes had remained more fixed on her than on his surroundings. All in all, he was an excellent choice and well-suited to Sherlock. 

 

Christmas dinner, however, was a disaster. 

 

Mycroft and Sherlock had exchanged passive aggressive attacks through the appetizer course, a tasteful (and delicious) smoked salmon pate with toast. Sherlock had alluded to his meddling in a case; Mycroft had alluded to Sherlock's inability to dress correctly when staying at home around the flat, whatever that meant. (Sherlock had never much getting dressed, although she hoped it was related to his refusal to wear a tie considering his age. Mycroft never explained himself fully.)

 

However, the implications of what had been said were not lost on Sherlock, who glanced at John and continued to glare and sulk as the entree was brought out. 

 

"Sherlock has been requiring quite a bit of unnecessary medical care since his return. I'm hoping he finds other ways to cope with his… boredom." Another glance at John, and another quip at Mycroft. Was Mycroft insinuating that Sherlock was risking his life too often? Violet considered herself an extremely intelligent woman, but apparently no match for her boys when they were stuck so intensely on something. 

 

John sat and watched the bickering, occasionally rolling his eyes, although Violet couldn't figure out how well the man was following each insult. To her amazement, after looking over to see Sherlock actually in heated debate with his brother, John actually scooped food onto Sherlock's plate as each dish came by. When the three of them had food, he set down a heaping plate of roasted potatoes, Brussels Sprouts, cranberry sauce, bread sauce, Yorkshire pudding, roast parsnips, and a few pieces of turkey in front of Sherlock as well. But while that seemed a bit odd, what made her eyes actually widen was that Sherlock took one long look at the food and then picked up his fork without a word to begin eating.

 

The matter between the brothers was dropped and both of the combatants began eating without further conversation. Violet was forced to conclude that Mycroft was acclimatized to this type of behavior from Dr. Watson, as well as Sherlock, which was what made the situation more terrible when John's mobile rang. 

 

"Sorry… I'm so sorry. Must be Mary." He excused himself and the table went silent. Not even Mycroft had a comment for that, and so he continued to eat.

 

"Lillian has done an excellent job this year, as always, Mummy" Mycroft remarked in an attempt to get Sherlock to remain civil. Violet, however, was having none of his overdramatic pomp at the moment. 

 

"Indeed. As always. Sherlock, dear, who is Mary?" Her younger son looked broken, still angry and defiant as always on the surface, but something in his eyes had changed and darkened with his mood. 

 

"Mary is the man John is marrying in the beginning of May. I am going to be the best man. I would gamble you never thought that would happen to me," he joked icily, and she couldn't help but realize he was referring to the institution of marriage, and not his position as the best man.

 

"I'm sure it will difficult for you to lose John."

 

"Nonsense, I can find another assistant." Mycroft cleared his throat and Sherlock glared at him, much as he had been before. Could it be possible that all of their conversation had been around this one topic? Obviously.

 

Sherlock was losing John. Sherlock would be alone again. The first thing Mrs. Holmes thought about was cocaine. She knew both of the boys had kept much of the drama away from her prying eyes, but they couldn't possibly delete the Christmases of  years past when Sherlock had arrived high and remained high for the entirety of the holiday. How would Sherlock possibly cope with losing the one person whom he allowed to care for him?

 

When John returned, he offered his apologies again, looked to Sherlock uneasily, and continued eating his dinner in silence. Their separation hadn't been discussed yet then. For a moment, Violet thought Sherlock would drop his sour mood immediately at having John once again at the table, but apparently the year between when she had last seen her stubborn son had made her memory of him more kind in matters such as these. 

 

"Does Mary require a late night doctor's evaluation for some reason? I don't know why else she would have called during dinner." 

 

"Sherlock, please." 

 

"It's fine if you have to leave. Good luck getting off the estate in the snow."

 

"You know I'm not…" 

 

"I know you're not above choosing her over me. Why aren't you spending Christmas with her anyway?"

 

"Jesus, Sherlock, just shut up!" The table fell silent and then Sherlock shot up, threw his napkin into his food, and stormed off. John looked after him, excused himself briefly, and then dashed in the direction Sherlock had gone. The house was impossible to navigate, but Violet had to hope Sherlock would make it easy for the doctor to find him. 

 

"How long?" she asked softly, looking over at Mycroft carefully.

 

"Almost four years," he replied immediately, picking at his potatoes disinterestedly. "The most fascinating part is how deeply Dr. Watson cares for him, don't you think? I am of the opinion that if Sherlock said something, he would call off the whole wedding, even if he is not gay." 

 

"He will." 

 

"What?" 

 

"Sherlock will say something, and John will call off his wedding."

 

"How can you be so sure?" At that Violet chuckled, going into the kitchen for the pudding. Sherlock would need it if he wanted to work up his courage before the holiday ended. 


	43. Wake up, you dolt, it's Christmas morning! - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is "Wake up, you dolt, it's Christmas morning!" 
> 
> I fear Golfechoromeo's and Anne's will be late because, well, they're late and I'm tired haha.

__  
  
John startled awake when his sleeping body was suddenly covered by someone else hurling theirs on it.  
  
"Wake up, you lazy dolt, it's Christmas morning!"  
  
John groaned and rubbed at his eyes to get them to open. "Ten more minutes," he mumbled.  
  
"No!" the voice called out.  
  
"Christ." John kicked Sherlock, who made a noise of deep discontent. "He gets this language from you."  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his son, Hamish, sprawled out over John with an excited glimmer in his eyes. It was a sight he couldn't quite get used to, even though it was an almost daily occurrence. His John and their son. "He's just excited. Aren't you, Hamish?" he said. He'd need to have another talk with him later about what was acceptable language in front of John (who cared far too much about 'propriety').  
  
Hamish let out a shriek that evolved to a laugh and and kicked his legs in answer. John started to laugh and wrestled Hamish down so he was laying between his two dads. "Ten more minutes," he said again, pulling up the blanket they had learned to keep on the foot-end of the bed for occasions such as this. He covered Hamish with it and then wrapped an arm around him protectively.

"Dad, make daddy get up," Hamish complained, looking up at Sherlock with sorrowful eyes. Sherlock glanced at John, who was already falling back asleep and decided to take pity on him this particular morning. He shifted on the bed, bringing his face close to Hamish's and spoke to him in a whisper.

"How old are you, Hamish?" Sherlock said.

"I'm five, dad," Hamish said, making his voice sound breathy like a whisper but speaking in his normal tone. John smiled and kissed the back of his head.

"And if you were in the Periodic Table of Elements, what would you be?" Sherlock whispered.

"Boron," Hamish said firmly.

Sherlock smiled encouragingly. Hamish was like a sponge when it came to information. "Yes. How come Boron is fifth in the Periodic Table?"

"Because it has five proteins," Hamish said.

"Pro _tons_ ," Sherlock corrected. John gave Sherlock's leg a little kick to remind him to be a bit more gentle with his tone.

"Protons," Hamish echoed. "Remember when you called daddy a Boron? Does that mean daddy is made up of five proteins too?"

John opened an eye and scowled at Sherlock. "What?" he said.

Sherlock smirked. He was proud of his little joke. "You were being boring. And a moron. I thought it was fitting."

" _Sherlock_ ," John said admonishingly. He changed his mind about the scolding he was planning and closed his eye again. "Never mind. I'd rather sleep."

Sherlock nodded and continued to quietly chat with Hamish about Boron. Their chatter was pleasant white noise for John who did indeed fall back asleep.

"What form does Boron take?" was the last question Sherlock asked Hamish before the little boy fell asleep again.

Hamish frowned, thinking about all the different forms his dad had taught him. Gas, liquid, or solid. His dad had told him that daddy was a Boron, and daddy was solid so that must be the answer. "Solid?" he said. "Just like daddy."

Sherlock felt the ache in his chest that he'd become familiar with. Sentiment. Horrid emotion. It was addicting and Hamish brought it out in him so easily. As did John. It was almost enough for him to want to give in to their request to get a dog.

Almost.

Sherlock fell asleep with them with a hand on John's hip, and that's how Mrs. Hudson found the three of them an hour later.

She looked at them from the doorway and dabbed a few tears from the corners of her eyes. She'd never imagined she'd have two sons and a grandson in her life. With a little sniff she composed herself and clapped her hands.

"Wake _up_ , boys! It's Christmas and I need help making breakfast. Today isn't the day to be lazy. Santa hasn't been."


	44. Wake up, you dolt, it's Christmas morning! - Golfechoromeo

__  
Sherlock could hear John moving around upstairs in the bedroom above his and groaned.  He knew what day it was.  He knew how excited John got about it.  And he knew that John would never let him sleep in.  He heard the thundering of feet on the stairs.  Preemptively, Sherlock pulled the duvet over his face and curled up into a ball.  Just in time, it happened, as his bedroom swung wide open.  
  
"Wake up, you lazy dolt.  It's Christmas morning!" John called happily.   
  
Sherlock mumbled and tightened his hold on the blankets.  
  
"Oh no you don't!" John shouted and jumped on the bed, pulling the cover easily off of Sherlock.  "Let's go! We have to do our stockings!"  
  
Sherlock rolled over to look up at John.  "You sound like a child," he said, keeping his face expressionless.  "You're supposed to be an adult.  You're older than I am."  
  


"It's. Christmas."  John spoke the two words as if Sherlock did not understand the English language.  "You need to get out of bed."

Sherlock stared at John.  "I do not need to get out of bed," he said as he arched an eyebrow.  "It is a day just like any other.  The sun has risen and it will set tonight.  We do not not need to wake up any earlier than we normally do."

  
"A day just like any other?" John asked, horrified by the words Sherlock was saying.  "How can you say that?  How can you just be _lying_ there?"

"Quite easily," Sherlock said.  "This bed is extremely comfortable and warm.  You wouldn't want to leave it either if you were under the blankets."

  
John's eyes narrowed.  "Oh you think that?" he asked.

"I know that," Sherlock responded, feeling overwhelmingly cocky. 

There was a pause before John lied down next to Sherlock and pulled the duvet over both of them.  Instantly, Sherlock became hyper aware of John's body next to his, feeling the heat radiating from him, the warmth that he usually associated with John only concentrated so much more.  

  
"This is nice," John conceded, though his voice seemed a little off.  Had Sherlock been able to pay more attention, he would have noticed and observed that John was licking his lips more than usual and that his body was not exactly relaxed.  However, Sherlock was entirely preoccupied by the one prevailing and paramount realisation: John was lying beside him in bed.  

  
"Well?" Sherlock asked, hoping with all of him that John did not want to leave.  "Still want to race out of bed and go do Christmas things?"

"No," John whispered.  "You're still a lazy dolt, but you're a comfortable lazy dolt.  Mind if I stay a bit?"

  
Sherlock could not keep his face expressionless any longer and he allowed himself a smile.  "You can stay for as long as you'd like."

John smiled.  "Alright," he said.  "Presents after a nap then?"

  
Sherlock chuckled.  "Of course.  Now who's the lazy one?"

"Oi," John said as he closed his eyes.  "Shut it."

Sherlock closed his eyes and, before he fell back asleep, and for the first time in his life, was looking forward to what the rest of Christmas morning would bring. 

 


	45. Wake up, you dolt, it's Christmas morning! - Anne

It was the stage of their relationship where they couldn't keep their hands off each other. Well, it wasn't really a stage, considering it had lasted upwards of six months, but he couldn't help but think of it that way. Pretty much every time John and Sherlock were home, they were shagging, or kissing, or just staring at each other, and Sherlock had never been naughtier. He could say with complete certainty (and almost had on several occasions) that his universe revolved around the doctor. His entire universe. Of course, that didn't mean Sherlock had changed. He was his usual ornery self, prickly and impossible to deal with just as he always had been, except now he was getting lots of sex. As far as he was concerned, it was a very good arrangement.  
  
When Sherlock woke up in the morning, he was greeted with the endearing sight of John fast asleep on his belly with an arm resting around his waist. The man was snoring loudly and seemed unlikely to awake anytime soon, which was naturally quite unacceptable. Sherlock wanted him now. However, he had every reason to believe that there were specific gifts awaiting him, so he chose a gentler tactic for this particular morning. With some wiggling, Sherlock slipped out from underneath the doctor’s limbs and straddled John so that he could lightly massage the other man’s back and shoulders, gradually increasing the pressure until John let out a long sigh and his eyes blinked open.  
  
"Wake up, you lazy dolt," he said tenderly, trying to ease John out of sleep. “It’s Christmas morning.” John hummed his acknowledgement, surprised that Sherlock was waking him up so politely. Generally when the detective wanted him awake, he could expect a shoe thrown at his arse or the surprise of the covers being ripped from his prostrate form. This was much better. Infinitely better. Which meant that Sherlock wanted something from him. Obviously.  
  
Hands dug into the stiff parts of his back and pulled at his arms, nearly tearing him from limb to limb, but in a good way. Fingers brushed across his bare skin soothingly; knots came undone under the heavy insistence of Sherlock's will. God, if John had known Sherlock could do this, he would have requested it a lot more often.  
  
"What do you want, Sherlock?"  
  
"I want my gifts."  
  
"How do you know I got you anything?"  
  
"It's Christmas. I know you got me something." A specific something that Sherlock happened to want a great deal. He had hardly been able to wait until Christmas and now the other man was being an absolute dolt about letting him have it.  
  
"Oh, do you?"  
  
"Mmhm." Sherlock pounded John's back for a minute or so and then sprang to his feet. When the other man didn't move to follow him, he promptly slapped John's arse roughly, hoping to get a rise out of John at least.  
  
A slap was more like Sherlock than a massage, but the only movement John made was to retrieve his detective and toss him back onto the bed, pinning him to the sheets.  
  
"Maybe I didn't. You're awfully misbehaved." Sherlock whined at being so unjustly manhandled, squirming under John's hold and finally flipping the tired man onto his back.  
  
"I want my presents, John."  
  
"Fine. Go get your stocking and bring it here." Sherlock climbed out of bed once more at that, happily grabbing both the stockings they had so recently hung (Christmas was really full of useless traditions, wasn't it?) and tromping back to the bedroom, where John had nested once more into warm sheets. "Why are you so intent on getting your presents anyway?"  
  
Sherlock ignored him. John couldn't know that he knew, could he? A slender, pale hand reached into the stocking and produced a small black box, at which point, John pushed himself up in the bed.  
  
"Go on. Open it." Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. He ripped the box open and slid on the ring, surprised by how tasteful it was, considering it was from John. John grinned at him for a long moment before stretching back on the bed. He didn't know how Sherlock had known, but he wasn't surprised that the clever git had figured out his present before it was given to him.  
  
"Marry me?" John asked, heart fluttering in his chest, even though he already knew the answer. Unless, of course, Sherlock only wanted the bloody ring.  
  
"Obviously." The detective reached into John's stocking next, pulling out a similar box and chucking it in his boyfriend's direction.  
  
"Merry Christmas." At that John's mouth fell open, and he tentatively opened the box with a wide grin on his face.  
  
"Lovely, Sherlock. It's lovely." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but they were twinkling with happiness.  
  
"Back to bed?" he asked coyly, crawling back on top of John with a seductive grin.  
  
"Actually, more of that massage would be nice." Sherlock yanked on John's hair and sunk his teeth into his fiancé's neck, leaving a bright red mark in the tender skin as an answer.


	46. Santa Hat - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 16
> 
> Today's prompt is Santa Hat! Getting close to my annual wearing of one. 
> 
> Also: We really, really appreciate the comments, kudos and views we're getting. It's really awesome to know that people are reading and liking it. We'd write them anyway, of course, because it's super fun. But knowing that others are enjoying makes it all that much better. Thank you!!

Sherlock sat staring at John. It wasn't unusual; John was used to it and it didn't bother him. It wasn't usually on purpose either, John assumed there was something about the regularity of his breathing or something that somehow made it easier for Sherlock to think. Or maybe he was trying to suss out if John had an undiagnosed illness by the pattern of his breath. Either way, John didn't mind and he kept on reading his newspaper without remarking on it.  
  
Sherlock, meanwhile, was dying. It felt like he was dying, at least. And who was he to say he wasn't? _John_ was the doctor. But _John_ was sitting a few feet away from him wearing a ridiculous chapeau. Except chapeau made it sound much more sophisticated than what it was.  
  
A _Santa hat._  
  
Sherlock had tried to think. He really had. But the bloody thing was driving him to distraction. It made John seem so childish and vulnerable. John was neither, except when they were fighting about Sherlock's habit of not cleaning up after himself; at those times, John was both childish and unreasonable. Mrs. Hudson would always clean up if she felt the mess had gone too far.  
  
Something in the newspaper made John's lips turn up in a smile and he gave a little snort, his head giving a soft nod. The pointy end with the fluffy, white ball attached bounced and landed on John's shoulder. Sherlock glared angrily at it. John had no right to be distracting Sherlock like this. He had no _right_ to be being... sweet and adorable. _He's in his thirties. Who does he think he is?_ Sherlock thought.  
  
John's eyebrows raised and he pointed at some text in the newspaper as he turned his head. The fluffy ball moved from one shoulder to the other. "Sherlock, in here it says that your old friend Se-" He was interrupted by a loud shout and Sherlock ripping the Santa hat off his head.  
  
"Wha-" John said, whipping around to see Sherlock throw the hat out the living room and down the stairs.  
  
Mrs. Hudson was on her way up to see to the mess Sherlock had created when she had to duck out of the way of a flying thing. She wished she could say that was the first time she'd nearly been knocked down by something Sherlock had thrown. But she couldn't.  
  
"What the _fu_ -" she heard John yell before the door slammed. She decided to come back later. Loud shouting ensued and she looked up at the door with wide eyes.  
  
 _Much_ later.


	47. Santa Hat - Golfechoromeo

"Hamish, no!" Sherlock called out as he tried to chase the bulldog puppy around the flat, but the little dog showed no signs of wanting to stop whatsoever.  And why would he?  This was the first time Hamish had ever been in the flat that would become his home.  

  
John had made the comment in passing once.  Just once.  He had wanted a bulldog for Christmas when he was eight years old, but money had been always been tight at the Watson house and they were unable to get a dog.  John had looked so wistful when he had talked about it that Sherlock knew that there could be no other gift for him.

That had been almost two years ago, but Sherlock had not forgotten.  He had been looking for a reputable breeder and the perfect bulldog for John, but nothing was good enough.  He had very strict criteria that none of the owners or puppies met.  

  
Until he found this one.

It had been purely by chance that he overheard one of the Yarders on his cell phone on December 23, discussing with his wife their neighbor with the new bulldogs, complaining about how there were interested people arriving and parking on the street in front of their flat at all hours of the day.  Sherlock's ears perked up instantly and, after a few glances at the confidential personnel files, knew the address of the police officer.  He went straight to the building, foregoing the rest of his research, and upon his arrival knew exactly which flat had the puppies.  There were people coming out form the house, a few holding bulldog puppies.  

  
An hour later, Sherlock left, holding this small and energetic puppy in his arms.  The dog was to be named Hamish, obviously.  A dog for John would need to be named for John himself.  What better name than John's middle name?   Sherlock had imagined the scenario perfectly.  Hamish would be sitting in front of the little tree in the flat when John arrived home from his day of work.  He was working a late shift at the hospital which gave Sherlock more time to prepare.  Maybe he could even train Hamish by that point to be poised and patient when John came in, wearing a small Santa hat that he had purchased at the pet store on his way home. 

  
The scene could not have been more different.  Within the first fifteen minutes of Hamish's arrival in Baker Street, he had had one accident in the middle of the kitchen floor, had tried eating a few of Sherlock's papers with research findings scrawled on them, and had started to gnaw on the Union Jack pillow on John's armchair.  Sherlock had, quite foolishly, taken out the Santa hat in the hopes that he could get Hamish to sit still long enough to wear it, but the puppy had other ideas.  He saw it as a game and that if he ran through the flat with this soft red object in his mouth, the tall man would chase him and it would be great fun. 

  
"Hamish!" Sherlock said loudly as the puppy jumped onto Sherlock's armchair.  His bottom was raised into the air and his entire back half was wagging back and forth with his tail.  "Give me back that hat! We need to get you into position.  John will be home any moment."  Sherlock made a forward motion to get the hat back, but Hamish was too fast for him.  He jumped off the chair and ran towards the couch, running back and forth across the length of it a few times before Sherlock approached him and Hamish took off again and continued to run.

In all of the excitement of chasing Hamish, Sherlock did not even hear John's footsteps on the stairs.  Nor did he hear or see the door to the flat open.  All Sherlock was concentrating on was trying to get Hamish to drop the Santa hat. 

  
"Hamish, come here!" Sherlock said again, and this time the puppy listened.  At least somewhat.  For his small and wide eyes had just seen a new man come into the room.  And this man was smiling widely and looking between him and the tall man with a nice and kind look on his face.  

  
"And who is this!" John asked happily, causing Sherlock to turn around in surprise.

"John!" he said as he stood up straight.  "No! You're not supposed to be here.  Your gift isn't ready!"

  
Hamish, however, disagreed and was very ready to meet John and ran up to him and placed his paws on his thighs. 

"Sherlock," John said slowly as he scooped the puppy into his arms.  "Did you get me a puppy for Christmas?"

Nodding, Sherlock bent down and picked up the Santa hat that had fallen from Hamish's mouth and carried it over to John.  "You mentioned wanting one a while back.  This is Hamish."

John looked in awe at Sherlock and kissed Hamish on top of his head.  "You're incredible," he said.  "You both are."  He took the Santa hat from Sherlock and placed it on Hamish's head, who was looking up and John with his tongue lolling out of his mouth.  "Best Christmas gift ever."

 

Sherlock beamed.  "That's what I was hoping for."


	48. Santa Hat - Anne

 Sherlock watched John from the dead. 

 

He scoured over laptops and security camera footage with the intensity of a madman. He had a collection of pictures taken from when John was getting laundry, having coffee, going shopping for food. He watched the same clothes age as John wore and laundered them, he watched the same orders of black coffee disappear into John's body daily, he watched John begin to limp again, and he watched the grocery list remain stagnant for months on end.

 

Beer, vodka, chips, frozen pizzas, cans of over-salted soup.

 

Sherlock watched John fade over his digital interfaces as he was off saving the world (that's how he liked to think of what he was doing), and so he took measures to fix it. 

 

He made Mycroft bulletproof the glass of the flat, made Mycroft go visit a few times to offer John various jobs, made Mycroft give Mrs. Hudson money for John.  _Tell her to make John go to Angelo's. Tell her to buy him fruit. Tell her to buy him a gym membership._  


 

And Mycroft obeyed him, oddly enough, always with a sad look that Sherlock didn't want to see, because he already knew what his brother knew. John was fading because of him; and no gym membership, quantity of fruit, or physical protection was going to bring  back his vitality.

 

Sherlock watched John meet Mary. He watched the first few tentative dates, watched Mary coax John into eating, watched Mary coax John into working out, watched Mary hold him. 

 

He watched John cry to Mary. He watched Mary begin to fix it. 

 

Sherlock liked Mary for fixing John. Sherlock hated Mary for fixing John. John was his responsibility, and he could help the other man much better than the pretty woman in her elegant skirts, but he couldn't help at the moment, and Mary did indeed seem to be helping. 

 

Sherlock watched Christmas dinner that year. He watched Mrs. Hudson bustle about the kitchen. He watched Lestrade make eyes at everyone with a pulse, clearly still stuck in the same unhappy marriage. He watched John. He watched John thanking Mary with a constant arm around her waist, with kisses, with a wedding ring. Everyone clapped and congratulated; Sherlock felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest, but he continued to watch the screen of his laptop, headphones securely fitted to his head and the volume turned up, waiting to hear that John was joking. He was never given any indication that the proposal was a joke, though. In fact, nothing about the outside world had ever felt so  _real_ and so _surreal_ at the same time. 

 

"Well, go on then. Someone put on the santa hat and hand out the gifts," Mrs. Hudson remarked in her stern voice, trying to restore order like always. 

 

"I don't see it. Must have gotten lost in last year's excitement." At that, John's happiness seemed to dissipate; his face grew very pale and he needed help to get back to his chair. Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and stormed out of the underground flat Mycroft had prepared for him, brown curls bouncing in the wind and collecting powdery snow as he walked. He was going to end this nonsense. He was going to see John. He was going to make Mary's kindness disappear with his rude, abrasive insults. 

 

Sherlock didn't see John, though, although he never bothered to self-analyze his reasons why not. Was it because he wasn't supposed to come out of hiding until he had finished his mission? Was it because he wanted Mary to keep fixing? Was it because he wondered how much good he could do to the faded man anyway? 

 

In the wee hours of the morning, Sherlock left a brand new santa hat, hastily pinched from a store on the corner, on the doorstep of 221B before retreating back to his cave to watch. 

 

Sherlock watched John from the dead. He watched the other man open the door to the street and find the santa hat laying innocently on the snow. He watched John's eyes dart around in search of his benefactor. He watched John weep


	49. It's Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 17
> 
> Today's prompt is "It's Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas". It's really not. Things have melted here. I'm one part relieved (because winter will come soon or later. Best later) and one part annoyed. White Christmas please!

Sherlock was in a toilet stall of a shopping centre. It was Christmas time and so, according to an unwritten law of some sort, the shops all had to play Christmas carols.

_It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas._

Sherlock hated Christmas. Hated it. He hated being stuck in a room with his relatives while his mind was spinning out of control, and concerned faces were peering at his scowling face and asking with concerned voices if he was okay. No he wasn't okay. He wasn't. But he didn't know why. All the reasons he could come up with seemed so plebeian and common that he refused to associate with them.

_Everywhere you go._

So he had escaped. Just for a little while. They could manage without him there. But Christmas was everywhere. Christmas seemed to have struck a sympathetic chord in half the people he met, as they asked him if he was alright. The nicest answer he had given was a dangerous narrowing of his eyes, and the rudest had left a woman and her two children in tears as the husband and father had to own up to his adultery on Christmas Eve.

_There's a tree in the Grand Hotel_

His family had picked the Grand at Trafalgar Square as their spot for Christmas this year. Sherlock, who was bohemian at heart although the natural elegant and grace in his body would have most people in disbelief, had scoffed at the heavy drapes and the marble that seemed to continue on forever. He had rolled his eyes at the golden accents in the ballroom. But he had enjoyed his room. Alone and away from concerned eyes. But he couldn't escape them forever.

_And one in the park as well_

 

During Christmas Eve brunch, he'd had enough. The chatter of distant cousins and whatevers-fifty-times removed became too much and Sherlock left. He walked. First to the Italian Gardens where he was assaulted with so much Christmas cheer that he growled to himself. He needed to go somewhere where he could lock himself away without anyone disturbing him. And that's how he ended up in a Harrod's toilet.

_The sturdy kind that doesn't mind the snow_

 

And with him in stall he had a little packet of his own snow. Cocaine. Not to inject this time, which was unfortunate, but to snort. It was better than nothing but he knew it wouldn't be good enough. He giggled to himself at his associations between the oddly fitting Christmas carol that was being played through speakers throughout the building and the white powder he had divided up. He'd already done one line and already he was feeling fantastic. He was better at everything than everyone. And he'd be even better once he finished up the second line.

_It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas_

 

Another pair of footsteps entered the toilet as Sherlock was about to do his second line. The person who owned the footsteps hopped up to sit on the sink.

"I know you're in there. And what you're probably doing," the person said.

Sherlock straightened up, away from his cocaine.

"I'm probably too late, but I think you should rethink what you're doing," the person said.

Who was this person and how dare he?

"But that's just my opinion. What do I know? I just saw your face. Which is a handsome face, if you don't mind me saying. It would be a shame if you were, I don't know, destroying it by ruining your septum," the person said.

How could he sound so innocent and yet know so much?

"I'll tell you what though - I hate this bloody song. I've been here an hour and this is the second time they've played it. You'd think a place like this would be able to afford another Christmas mix CD."

 

_Soon the bells will start_

 

Sherlock grinned. _Who_ was this? He got up and opened the stall door, holding a book in his hand with a carefully ordered line of cocaine on it.

Gorgeous. That's who it was. Someone gorgeous. He looked fantastic. And he was funny and clever and wore a terrible jumper.

"What are you doing here? You're from a poor family. You can't afford anything they sell here, that's painfully apparent by the state of your shoes. How old are they? They're too small. Your feet have grown but you haven't told your parents. Guilt? Shame? Why? No money. Not enough money to buy shoes, even the ones that cost nothing. You know they'd fall apart within months, that's why you're keeping the ones you have now. They're a good make. Who gave them to you? Family member? Friend of the family? Not your father. Your father would rather spend his money on alcohol. Your brother sneaks it, by the way. Probably already an alcoholic. I hope that doesn't come as a nasty surprise to you. How did you know I was doing cocaine? Ah. Your brother. Doesn't only favour alcohol. You know the habits. I'm only sorry I'm so predictable as to have the same tells. Why did you follow me?" Sherlock said, speaking so fast that the other boy's eyes widened.

The boy reached out his hand and took Sherlock's. He pulled him close and took the book from his hand, tipping it so the line of cocaine fell into the sink.

"That was mine," Sherlock said.

"Too sodding bad. It's not good for you," the boy replied.

"Why did you follow me?" Sherlock asked again.

"Well," the boy said, blushing. "I saw you and I thought you were..." he gestured his hands to indicate Sherlock's body and face as if that said all that was needed. "So I looked closer and I saw you were behaving like Harry's friends. All twitchy. I don't know why I followed you. Christmas spirit?"

_  
And the thing that will make them ring_

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Sodding Christmas. He didn't want to hear about it anymore. But he did like this boy. "Who are you?" he asked.

"John. Watson. John Watson. I'm twenty-one and I'm in uni. I'm going to be a doctor," John said, the pride apparent on his face.

Not a boy. A man.

"I'm eighteen," Sherlock said. Well, almost.

"What's your name?" John asked.

 

_Is that Carol that you sing_

 

"Sherlock Holmes. I don't think I'll be going to university. I'm much too clever. I'll do something different. My own research," Sherlock said, his eyes taking on a manic glint.

"Okay," John said with a nod. He wondered what Sherlock was like off cocaine. He wondered how long it would take for the high to subside. "What kind of research?"

"It doesn't matter. My own. What ever comes across to me as interesting," Sherlock said.

John smiled. "That's really cool. I think you'd be great at that. You look like you're smart. Well, you looked a bit stupid when you came out of the toilet holding a book with cocaine on it, but other than that..." 

Sherlock lurched forward and pressed their lips together in a needy kiss. John responded for a few seconds and then pushed him back. He was breathing hard and squeezed his eye shut, holding Sherlock off by his shoulders. "Ah, you've gone and ruined it," he said.

"What?" Sherlock said.

"I was hoping to kiss you sometime, but not like this," John said.

"Like _what_?" Sherlock barked. He didn't understand what he'd done wrong.

"You're high. I don't kiss people who aren't sober. It's wrong," John said simply.

Sherlock stared. John was apparently made of a strong sense of ethics and probably the stubbornness to stick to them. It would be completely unacceptable not to kiss him again.

"I'll call you. Later. Tomorrow? No, not tomorrow. It's Christmas tomorrow and I have to attend a dinner. The day after?" Sherlock said after a few seconds within which he decided that foregoing cocaine for an afternoon might be worth it to kiss John again.

"Sure. Call me," John said. Sherlock handed him his phone and John typed in his number with rather clumsy hands. He had to delete and retype the number a few times. "Sorry, I'm not very fast with phones."

It was so intensely endearing that Sherlock narrowed his eyes for the hundredth time that day. "Day after tomorrow," he said and then he left abruptly, leaving his book behind.

December 26  


 

[10:21] John. SH

[10:22] Sherlock Holmes. Hello. JW

[10:22] Kissing now? SH

[10:24] Are you high? JW

[10:24] No. SH

[10:25] Let's start with a coffee. JW

 

[23:34] I really enjoyed myself today with you. JW

[23:36] I'm really good at kissing. SH

[23:36] You're supposed to say I'm good at kissing. JW

[23:37] That too. SH

[23:47] John. SH

[23:59] You're asleep. Rude. SH

  
  
December 27

[05:12] Shlok yorgood kiss. JW

  
[09:01] Christ, what did I even try to say there? JW

[09:32] I didn't scare you did I? JW

  
[12:09] No, John. And I think you were trying to point out the obvious fact that I'm good at kissing. SH

[12:10] Have you had lunch? JW

[12:11] No. SH

[12:11] Want to go out for lunch with me? JW

[12:12] Yes. SH

December 28

[04:12] Lik kisaunt me. JW

[04:12] You're ridiculous. Go back to sleep. SH

  
[09:10] Fuck, I did it again. I'm sorry. Any idea? JW

[09:11] None at all. Breakfast? SH

[09:12] Excellent idea. JW

December 29

[01:21] John, I had an enjoyable day with you. I am fond of your company. SH

  
[04:49] Hok wjurg y comp JW

  
[09:00] I'm a prat. JW

[09:01] Yes. SH

[09:05] Same place for breakfast? JW

[09:05] Yes. SH

  
December 30 

[00:12] I really like you. JW

[00:29] Goodnight. JW

 

[05:12] John. SH

[05:12] Serl lik yu. yu lie? JW

[05:13] Goodnight. SH

  
[09:10] I'm going to start turning off my phone at night. JW

[10:32] No. SH

[10:35] No? JW

[10:35] No. SH

[10:37] Lunch? JW

[10:37] No. SH

[10:42] Okay. JW

 

  
[16:32] Feels really weird not to spend the day with you. JW

  
[22:45] Goodnight. JW

 

[22:52] I miss you. JW

  
December 31

[03:58] Fuk whdid drop JW

[03:58] Drop JW

[03:58] Drop JW

[03:59] Drop JW

[03:59] STOP JW

[04:00] ? SH

[04:00] Why did stop talk? JW

[04:03] Research. SH

[04:03] Cocaine. JW

[04:04] No, John. Research. I haven't done cocaine since Christmas Eve. SH

[04:05] I thin I in love with you. JW

  
[12:06] Why haven't you texted me yet? SH

[12:10] Mortification. JW

[12:10] I'm hungry. Lunch? SH

[12:11] Really? JW

[12:12] Yes. SH

[12:14] Great. Yeah, lunch sounds great. JW

 

January 1

[04:32] Yor fantast JW

 

"John, put your phone away. I'm sleeping right next to you," Sherlock muttered. He took the phone out of John's hands and dropped it to the floor. It came down with a clatter and John twitched. John seemed to twitch at loud noises and Sherlock didn't like it one bit. He pulled John closer, settling his head on his chest. "I think I'm in love with you too," he whispered when he was absolutely sure John was asleep again.

_Right within your heart._

 


	50. It's Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas - Golfechoromeo

 "Christ, Sherlock, will you keep it down!" John shouted as he marched into the living room from their bedroom where he had been napping quite peacefully.  Sherlock had found the gun that John had tried to hide safely away for these bouts of boredom and was shooting at the wall again.  The smiley that was spray painted on the wallpaper had a Santa hat  pinned above it and Sherlock was taking aim at the little ball of fluff at the end of it.

"No," Sherlock said calmly, as he lined up the shot again, wanting to hit his mark before John took the gun away and attempted to hide it again.  He managed to hit just the outside fringe of the white cotton before John pulled the gun out of his hand and emptied the clip and glared at him.

  
"What the _hell_ are you doing?" John asked, his temper flaring.  He looked at Sherlock's outfit was was more than a little perplexed.  The brilliant detective was wearing his dressing gown over his pyjamas, but on his feet were John's snow boots.  "And what the _hell_ is that outfit?"

  
"I was inspired by your singing yesterday," Sherlock said as he turned around and walked to his armchair.  "God knows you wouldn't shut up with your... _caroling_ ," he said, almost making the word a sneer. 

  
"Oh, you were inspired by my singing, were you?" John asked as he placed the gun on the kitchen table, making a mental note to hide it in the back portion of the freezer for later.  "I don't recall ever singing a song about being a bloody lunatic and firing a gun at the wall while wearing my sodding boots." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "John, you of all people should appreciate a good creative interpretation."  He looked at John plainly, waiting for his boyfriend to understand.

John did not and instead, his temper rose once more.  "Stop it. You're doing the face," he said, trying not to spit the words out venomously.  He hated how calm Sherlock was about all of this and how there seemed to be some joke that John was not understanding.

  
"I tried to make do with what we had," Sherlock said.  "I'm a bit surprised you didn't notice the rest of the flat. But then again, your anger and frustration with me often prevents you form observing your surroundings."

  
"You fucking-" John was livid now.  "How _dare_ you."  He knew he was overreacting and this was all the result of him being woken up from his nap prematurely, but it drove him mad to not only have Sherlock have such little respect for their flat, but to also sit there and insult his intelligence by letting his emotions take control. 

  
"Yes, how _dare_ I," Sherlock said with a smirk.  "Take a moment and _look_ , John."

The last thing John wanted to do give in to Sherlock's request, but there was something in his eye that made John feel compelled to look around the flat.  He huffed out a sigh and turned his head.  John's jaw dropped.

How had he missed this?  There were candy canes and tinsel strewn about the flat, fluffs of fake snow on the coffee table and desk and mantle, and hanging on the back of the  
door the flat, a sprig of holly.

  
"It looks like Christmas," John said in awe.

Again, Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "That would be the point, John.  I was bored while you napped so I decided to entertain myself.  I thought your gun would suffice as the pistol that shoots but since neither of us own "hop-a-long boots" and nor do I hope that either of us will _ever_ own them, I thought your snow boots would have to make do.

John smiled widely and moved forward, kissing Sherlock passionately on the lips, feeling completely elated. 

"This doesn't mean you're off the hook for shooting the wall," John said as he pulled back from Sherlock's lips.

"Doesn't it though?" Sherlock responded with a grin.

"Cheeky Christmas bastard," John said before his lips met Sherlock's again.


	51. It's Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas - Anne

Everything was white. 

 

His arriving family looked like ghosts as they came up the front stairs through the sprinkling of pure white snow as it continued to fall from the heavens as a constant reminder of what season it was. As if the cold weren't enough. The world was different; sound didn't travel. Everything had gone mute. The world was anesthetized. 

 

Christmas was mute. Christmas was Sherlock's parents and his brother and holiday dinners that he abhorred. Christmas was his whole extended family coming over for a party. Christmas was people lounging around in the ballroom; talk of politics and the inner workings of the British government, the secret service, and British law clouding the air. Sherlock just sat in silence, only offering biting insults when someone he was apparently related to offered a particularly idiotic piece of analysis or blatantly incorrect piece of data. These people could not be related to him. It was impossible. 

 

In was in the midst of some particularly cruel corrections when a glass of scotch was delivered to him and Sherlock forgot all about the importance of facts. He hadn't asked for alcohol, but he had certainly been thinking about it, and finding out where it came from was infinitely desirable to listening to old men grumble on about nothing. 

 

"From the bartender," the waiter offered in explanation. The two people next to him, once more deep in conversation about the benefits of the parliamentary system opposed to any other, didn't so much as look over to him, and so Sherlock decided that it was completely acceptable for him to make a trek across the dance floor to the bar in search of the patron of his scotch. The bartender? Interesting. Much more interesting than waiting for the food to be served with his family, whose activities ranged from heated academic discussion to impeccable dancing. 

 

Sherlock walked through the dancers with a certain coldness that placed him immediately above direct reproach. He could hear them muttering under their breath, though, just as he could see the thoughts running across their faces. (That's Sherlock, all right. God knows what went wrong with that one. Why can't he be more like his brother?)

 

Not like he cared what anyone thought. 

 

Whoever had been watching him (and decided he needed a drink) was sure to be watching him still, and so Sherlock's eyes scanned the bar throughout his journey, finally meeting those of an attractive young man making his great aunt a screwdriver. Ah. _Very_ interesting. He waited for the woman to waddle off (exactly how many times had she come back for drinks?), and then rested his elbows on the bar, giving the other man his most charming smile. 

 

"To what do I owe the honor?" John asked with a smirk, ignoring the seductive look that had just come into Sherlock's eyes, and it was clear that Sherlock Holmes was only trying to manipulate him. "Come now. I've been watching you sulk all night. That's not going to work on me." The act fell away instantly, and Sherlock simply sat down and began consuming his scotch. 

 

"Name, age, schooling, profession," he demanded, eyes glimmering, but with sincere curiosity rather than the desire to seduce. 

 

"Sherlock Holmes. 24. Cambridge University. Um… pretty sure you haven't worked a day in your life," John replied with yet another smirk, refilling Sherlock's glass before stowing the bottle away. Sherlock on the other hand, wasn't impressed. It wasn't difficult to find out about him; he was the son of the one of the wealthiest couples in England after all. Furthermore, his great aunt was quite talkative when she was intoxicated, although he couldn't exactly imagine that she would brag about him. 

 

"I know who I am, you git," he snapped, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. John laughed at his remark, nodding slowing in concession before indulgently providing Sherlock with the information he wanted to know. 

 

"John Watson. 27. Queen Mary, University of London. Ex-military, bartender extraordinaire, almost doctor." Acceptable. John was perfectly acceptable. Although Sherlock couldn't exactly come up with a scenario in which he wouldn't find the other man's credentials sufficient. 

 

"Well, John Watson, I'm not entirely sure why you put the scotch away. In fact, you're going to have a glass with me." 

 

"Am I? Sounds like you're flirting with the bartender. Sherlock, I'm not supposed to drink while I'm working, and I'm not supposed to allow anyone to drink more than five drinks. Your father said as much." Sherlock decided John was cute when he was protesting something they both knew he would give into. 

 

"I won't tell. Just one drink with me now and my two remaining drinks after dinner." 

 

"After dinner?" This Sherlock bloke was very forward; John supposed he had started it with sending the first drink. 

 

"Yes. You'll be eating dinner with me." 

 

"Sorry, can't." John didn't even bother trying to explain that someone hired for an event was not then allowed to sit down at the dinner table with his employer's attractive son. He did, however, produce the bottle of scotch and pour them both a final drink. He took a sip and his eyes widened. In his entire life, John had never imbibed something so expensive. Sherlock noticed his reaction, but he said nothing. It was generally not good technique to mention the difference in socioeconomic status when trying to get someone into bed.    

 

"But you're so much more interesting than this bunch." At that, he gestured to the dance floor, leaning up against the bar once more and watching John consume his scotch in small reverent sips. 

 

He saw his father walk on the dance floor and it was in a sudden rush of adrenaline that Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and pulled him out from behind the bar. With a gleeful chuckle, he ran through the back door, eager to win some time alone with his prize. If his father really wanted him, he would get a chiding text sometime in the next hour or so.

 

"Sherlock! I can't. Sorry. This has been fun, but I'm--"

 

"Dinner will be served soon. No one wants a drink." He ran through the halls of the big house, finally arriving at one of his favorite escape routes. He threw the door open and was instantly met with the world of white. Just like before. The trees were beautiful, adorned with powdery snow, and the world seemed mysterious rather than simply mute. Anesthetized? Not so much. They were silent for a long minute, before John started to move again.

 

"Um… I have to go back."

 

"Yes, I know. Me too," Sherlock mumbled, hoping that his new friend didn't find him too eccentric to tolerate. One glance at the other man's eyes told him this wasn't the case. 

 

"Sherlock, it looks like Christmas." 

 

"Mm, it is Christmas." He didn't ask why the young man wasn't with his family; he didn't ask about the war; he didn't ask about how or why John had become a bartender. (He was assuming it was related to money.) He turned, resigned to face his hateful family once more, when John's lips were on him. Just a kiss. That was all it was. 

 

And somehow it was enough for Sherlock to slink back to the dinner table and finish the evening with a unmistakable smile gracing his lips. After all, he had every reason to believe he had plans for after dinner. 


	52. Choir - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 18 (well, 19 but shh)
> 
> Sorry I'm late! My internet decided it wanted to cause a drama and so it did. Today's (yesterday's but shh) prompt is (was) Choir!

"John!" 

"Shh, they'll hear you," John hissed, putting a light hand over Sherlock's mouth while he worked two fingers in Sherlock's arse.

"Mm!" Sherlock's muffled tone came with a rush of heat into John's palm.

It had become habit long ago for them to carry condoms and lube with them wherever they went. They didn't bother with condoms at home, but it helped to have minimal clean up when they got into their trysts in public. The first and only time John had come in Sherlock without a condom when they had been out had left John sniggering in the back seat of a cab as Sherlock glared out the window and squirmed in his seat the entire way home.

But this evening they were prepared. Well, John had been prepared with the condoms and lube but he hadn't been expecting to use them. Not in a church with a choir singing Christmas carols. Sherlock had found the whole affair so trite, meaningless and _boring_ that he'd started to seduce John. Very carefully. Although Sherlock knew gods were just the imaginings of feeble minds, he had been brought up to respect the church and its traditions. The thing was, being bored made him lose respect for everything. And that's why he found himself quite comfortable with stroking John's thigh as the choir sang their version of 'Ding-Dong! Merrily on high.'  
  
John had reacted to him first by smiling, thinking that Sherlock was being affectionate in a completely innocent way. But then he had realised Sherlock had other plans. Mostly when he found his cock being stroked.

One thing had led to another (mainly the stroking leading to John being hard and having to cover himself with his coat), and soon Sherlock had been leading them in and out little rooms until he had found this one. The Vestry had seemed a fitting place to push his trousers and pants to his knees.

Without a word, John had pushed Sherlock with his front up against the wall and fallen to his knees behind him. He never passed up an opportunity to rim Sherlock, even if it happened to be in the middle of a church service. He licked Sherlock's left buttock so he knew what was coming.

"Oh, _yes,_ " Sherlock moaned, reaching one hand back and grabbing a cheek and parting it from the other to invite John to lick in the crack.  
  
John obliged him almost immediately. He licked Sherlock's wrist first and blew a stream of air on to it, continuing the exhale over to the arse cheek. Sherlock's hole was tightening and releasing in anticipation and when John finally got his tongue over it Sherlock arched his back and pressed himself into John's face with a long, satisfied sigh. John had to withdraw his tongue for a few seconds to smile and return the pressure by snuggling his face in. He put his tongue back when Sherlock thrust his arse back, insisting that he continued. He lapped at the hole, quite ready to take his time with it and be slow.   
  
But Sherlock had other ideas. "I don't know how long we have. You should..." He interrupted himself with a moan. "Should get on with it." In response, John parted Sherlock's arsecheeks and stuck his tongue in. It earned him a whimper. "John, please," Sherlock whispered. It wasn't often that the often purposely rude detective used such polite words, so John had no option but to obey him. He retrieved the lube packet from a pocket on the inside of his jacket and ripped it open.

"One or two?" John asked, coming to a stand.

"Two," Sherlock said. Sometimes he really liked the intrusion of two fingers at once.

  
And that's where they were now, with John's fingers knuckle deep inside Sherlock's arse.

 

John kissed the back of Sherlock's neck and Sherlock arched his back, pressing his well-formed arse against John's stomach. The height difference could make things awkward but Sherlock had become very used to spreading his legs. John let a third finger slip in and he closed his eyes, breathing hard. _God,_ he was so aroused. No matter how many times they had sex, no matter where they had it or how, it never failed to turn him into a jelly-legged, sweating mess.

Sherlock shook his face free of John's hand. " _John_ ," he hissed in a tone that clearly said _stop fucking around or I will destroy the very church we're standing in so I can bury you under its bricks._

John took the hint, slipped his fingers out and undid his trousers. He stood with his bottom bare in the church vestry wondering how the hell his need for adrenalin rushes had led to this. He fiddled the condom packet open when he realised that he didn't know how but god, wasn't it wonderful?  
  
Sherlock was whining where he stood, his hands up against the wall and his chin tucked to his chest. His hips were rolling to find some contact and friction for his poor, stiff cock. There was none; he needed John's hand to wrap around him and squeeze. He hated being forced to be patient.  
  
John rolled the condom on while watching the plump cheeks in front of him move with half uttered swears leaving his mouth through the heavy breaths he took. He kicked at Sherlock's feet to make him spread wider. "I can't reach from here. You're a giant," he whispered.   
  
Sherlock spread his legs wider. It made his trousers slide up his legs and push under the crease of his arse, creating a push up effect that John had only thought possible with women and their bras. "Ah," he breathed. He squeezed the remaining lube from the little packet he had on to his cock and then rubbed the tip of it to Sherlock's hole. The detective stop squirming and seemed to find a measure of inner peace; John would take care of him. John always took care of him.

And to the echoing tunes of the choir singing 'O come, O come, Emmanuel', John pushed his cock inside the tight hole that belonged to his very adventurous partner in crime-solving. Sherlock's fingertips pushed against the wall and he clamped his lips shut. John filled him up, made him open up and take him. No one else invaded his mind like John did, and so it only seemed right that he let John invade his physical being too.

"Stop being _considerate_!" Sherlock said, trying to disguise the arousal in his voice by sounding annoyed. He didn't do it well.

Sherlock had started to squirm his hips again, moving them in thrusting circles until John grabbed them and forced them still. "Greedy... spoiled... arse..." he whispered as he started to thrust. He knew they wouldn't last long, not with how naughty it was to be shagging in the back room of a church with hundreds of people filling up the pews and a lovely choir singing about the coming of Jesus.   
  
He prolonged it a little by taking a hold of the base of Sherlock's cock and squeezing it tightly to keep him from coming, and he stopped himself from coming by keeping his thrusts so slow that they were more painfully pleasurable than enjoyably so.  
  
Sherlock was panting, his head still down and his curls forming a curtain around his face. There were no other sensations than John. _John, John, John._ John's hand. John's cock. John's breaths and moans. John's cock brushing by his prostate and how it made pre-come hang in a string off the tip of his cock. The amount of it that Sherlock could produce had turned out to be a thing that turned John on beyond belief, so when Sherlock spoke again, John knew exactly what he would find and what would happen.  
  
”Stroke me,” Sherlock whispered. A rush of blood came to his cock and made it pulse against John's tight grip.  
  
”It'll be the end of it,” John warned.  
  
”I know. _Of course_ I know. Who do you think I am, John? I know ev- _oh!_ ”   
  
John wasn't in the mood to hear how clever Sherlock thought he was so he rubbed his hand up to the head of Sherlock's cock to stop him speaking. It was wet and he could imagine how shiny it was. He could even imagine the taste. He slowly spread the pre-come around the head with his thumb, listening to the quiet, low moans of Sherlock as he did. His forefinger and thumb moved with the flicks of his wrist just over the soft tip.   
  
” _Stroke_ me,” Sherlock repeated. Why did John always want to tease him? Why did he always have to engage in torture? Was it his military past? ”John, I want to fucking come.” He didn't want to wait for John to realise that it was time to stop playing around and, so, he started moving his hips again and pointedly squeezing his muscles around the cock inside him.   
  
John sunk his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder to stiffle a loud moan as he started to thrust with him. His hand started moving on his own, all four fingers and thumb now gripping Sherlock's cock tightly. Now there was only the sound of skin hitting skin, the punctuated moans of both men and the loud inhales as they tried to catch their breaths.

 

”John, I-”   
  
”Me, too. Me, too,” John whispered heatedly. It was building now, his cock hardening more and the rushing feeling in his head was undeniable.  
  
Sherlock's hips jerked forward and warm liquid started running down John's hand. He didn't know how Sherlock managed to be so quiet. He usually had no qualms about being as loud as he possibly could just _because_ he could. Now that he knew he had satisfied his lover, John made his thrusts shallower and faster. He let go of Sherlock's softening cock and brought the hand to his mouth. He sucked his fingers clean as he thrust, more erratically now as his body took over completely.

 

His soft moans became increasingly high pitched until he was brought over the edge with a loud moan that echoed in the room they were in. He thrust himself in one more time before he emptied himself.   
  
”Jesus Christ,” he muttered when he recovered his ability to speak.  
  
Sherlock giggled. ”Yes.”  
  
”Well. They're certainly not singing about you now,” John said, pulling himself out of Sherlock's body and taking the condom off. He stood holding it, unsure what to do with it.  
  
”Hmm?” Sherlock hummed before perking his ears. ”Ah.” The choir had started their moving rendition of 'I sing of a maiden'. He giggled again. Post-sex highs were a fair replacement for cocaine. Sherlock took the condom from John's hand and tied it up and was about to put it in his pocket when he changed his mind and lobbed it in the bin.  
  
“Conversation starter. I imagine when Christmas is over they'll be bored,” he said to John's questioning face.  
  
“You do have interesting ways to combat boredom.”

 


	53. Choir - Golfechoromeo

John sat in the pew of the church on Christmas Eve, feeling uncomfortable in the shirt and tie his parents forced him into.  Why couldn't he just wear one of his favourite jumpers?  It was freezing and snowing outside and all he wanted was to feel the warmth and comfort that only a jumper of his could provide.  More than that, _why_ had his father insisted that their family sit right up front, right in the center?  It wasn't that John did not care about church, but for a twenty one year old, he wished he could have made the decision for himself.   
  
But it was Christmas, after all, and John was loyal to the end, especially in regards to the deeply rooted Watson family traditions.  There was nothing that could keep him from his family and what they did, even if it meant that as soon as they returned home from mass, his father would pour himself a large glass of scotch and his sister would take a few rather large and secretive gulps straight from the bottle when no one was looking and his mother would turn a blind eye and retreat to whatever corner of her mind she went to in order to imagine that their family was perfect.  
  
John sighed to himself as there was movement up front on the altar.  The choir was coming out, made up predominantly of younger children with a few miserable looking teenagers among their ranks.  None of the choir members, however, looked nearly as miserable as the tall and surly boy with the dark curls.  John's breath caught in his chest.  The boy was _gorgeous_.  Such striking features and piercing eyes, and those _cheekbones_.  He subconsciously licked his lips as he looked at him.   
  
And the boy looked back at him.  Something in his expression changed.  The boy went from looking murderous to being intrigued and fascinated.  John had never paid more attention to the choir of the church before.  Usually he closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, but not this year.  This year, John would be damned if he took his eyes away from that boy's.  He was drawn to him, feeling connected to him.   
  
"You're staring," his sister Harry whispered to him.  
  
John made so word or gesture that he had acknowledged what she said.  How could he?  Doing that would distract his focus and attention from the boy.  The boy, however, moved his eyes away from John's and was looking at his family members on either side of him.  The piercing eyes narrowed minutely and seemed almost calculating before they returned to John's and softened again.  
  
Through each song that the choir sang, John's eyes remain locked on the boy's.  Inside, his head was racing.  He couldn't leave the church with his family immediately after the mass.  He needed to stay.  He needed to talk to the boy.   
  
As the mass concluded with the Hallelujah Chorus to a congregation of wild applause, John's family began to gather their coats and head out the front door.  John didn't follow.   
  
"You go on ahead," he said.  "I'm going to walk home.  It's a beautiful night."  
  
His parents shrugged, indifferent.  John knew that his father wanted to get home to his scotch.  Harry gave him a small smile and waved.  John moved up to the wing of the church where the choir members were exiting from a door having taken off the long robes.  It was about half an hour later and John was sure that the boy must have used a side door and left when the door in front of him opened, and the boy walked out. 

"You waited," the boy said, looking surprised and impressed. 

John nodded.  "Yeah, I did."  He felt like a fool.  Surely there was something better to say.  He should introduce himself.  He should compliment the boy on his singing.  He should-

  
"Do you want to go get a cup of coffee?" the boy asked suddenly, being apparently very forward and reaching out and taking John's hand. 

"What?" John asked, surprised but not relinquishing the warmth or comfort that hand seemed to be bringing him. 

  
"Your family has gone home without you at your insistence so it's clear you don't want to go home right away.  Besides, I don't think you really want to be there to watch your father and your sister get incredibly drunk as your mother ignores it all."

 

"How did you-"

"I saw," the boy said simply.  "My name is Sherlock Holmes.  Would you like to get a coffee?"

John smiled slightly.  "John Watson.  And I'm not sure if I should.  I need to-"

 

"John Watson," the boy said and his voice echoed inside of John and he knew that he would listen to that voice for as long as it was talking to him.  "Coffee?"

"Coffee," John said in agreement as they left the church hand in hand, starting their first of what would become many Christmas traditions of getting coffee after listening to the church choir on Christmas Eve.


	54. Choir - Anne

Sherlock had been in choir for the majority of his life. Church choir when he was young (although it had done nothing to make him consider the possibility that there was a god), and then the school choir as soon as he had been kicked out of the school orchestra. Apparently his improvisations, tendency to ignore the conductor, and penchant for correcting lesser players wasn't nearly as appreciated as he believed it had every right to be. However, surprisingly enough, he didn't mind the change. In fact, he preferred to be a solo violinist; either completely by himself or, on rare occasions, when a suitable orchestra was accompanying him.

 

Choir was different. Mainly because Sherlock didn't profess to be a brilliant singer. If anything, he cursed his occasional problems with pitch (he had nearly perfect pitch on his damn instrument), and announced to his parents that he wanted voice lessons one night over dinner to work on his vocal tone when a solo for the Christmas concert was finally announced. There was no way he was going to get it otherwise; Ronald or Zachary would get it, which was completely unacceptable. 

 

Oddly enough, despite his constant shortcomings in regards to kindness, and despite his inability to chat about the weather, his fellow choristers didn't hate him. Not in the slightest. The funny thing about choir kids was that they came from all of the areas of the school; they were the percussion section of the band, the principal players of the orchestra, the leads in the school play, the cabinet of the student government, the editors of the school paper, the award winning members of the debate team, the star players from various sports teams, and the students taking the most rigorous classes Sherlock's school could offer. 

 

So, all and all, he was allowed to be a bit more eccentric than a more homogenous group of students would tolerate. Besides, Sherlock got a thrill from being in the most advanced group; it stroked his ego in just the right way.

 

Although the main solo for the Christmas concert had indeed gone to Zachary, despite the fact that Sherlock had started voice lessons, he was lucky enough to be awarded the baritone part in the male quartet. Mendelssohn's Psalm 22 was full of featured parts. Unfortunately it was also about God, and his solo was only a line long, but Sherlock let both offenses pass under the pretense that the music was overwhelmingly lovely and the text sufficiently dark.

 

When Sherlock met with the other three boys to work on the solo, he was surprised to see that the 2nd tenor part had gone to none other than John Watson. 

 

"Alright. Note's aren't too bad. Sherlock, piano?" Zachary asked, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was quite literally letting his eyes run up and down John's body. To his surprise, he got a response anyway. Apparently Sherlock's brain could stare intently at Watson and spout out complete sentences at the same time. Bloody impressive. 

 

"I am not sufficiently trained on the piano." 

 

"We all know you're able to clunk out notes, Holmes." 

 

"I'd rather not."

 

"Matt?" 

 

"Yeah, fine." Matt sat down at the piano with exaggerated seriousness, even pretending to fix the imaginary tails of his coat, which made the other two boys laugh and Sherlock smile. Sherlock was indeed able to clunk out notes, but he always felt a rush of extreme embarrassment when he messed up, while Matt always just laughed at his own failings. Besides, he wouldn't be able to stare at John if he was supposed to be playing the piano, which was certainly how he saw the rehearsal going. He hadn't known John bloody Watson would be singing with him. He rather liked John Watson, although that wasn't surprising as there were few who didn't. While John was clearly a quiet, private sort, he was a brilliant rugby player and an excellent student with an impeccable sense of humor. To Sherlock's dismay, while they had been singing in the same group for the better part of the year, he barely knew the damnably fit rugby captain. 

 

"Sher? Is there something on my shirt?" John asked flippantly, smiling widely at the odd boy before him. Sherlock was simply the type to stare, and John was internally melting as pale eyes examined him. Very weird bloke, but this particular weird bloke was the reason John had joined choir in the first place. This particular weird bloke made his pulse race in a not so bad way. Well, bad considering the fact he had a beautiful and desirable girlfriend, but not bad otherwise. 

 

"No. Just didn't think you'd be here." 

 

"Mm, I don't have Zach's pipes, but, unfortunately for all of us, he can't sing all the parts." Zach laughed loudly at that, Matt banged on the piano, and the four boys started rehearsing the ten seconds of stage time that differentiated Sherlock and John from the rest of the choir. 

 

After their rehearsal, John subtly waited for Sherlock to collect his things so they could walk together. Finally, an excuse to chat. Sherlock was supposedly not one for chatting, but John still held the vague hope that he would be an exception, especially after Sherlock's behavior during their rehearsal.

 

"Coming over?" Sherlock asked when he saw that John was still there, leaning up against the side of the choir building with his rugby bag rested on the ground next to him. The other boy slung his bag over his shoulder in response, picking up his walking speed until he was beside Sherlock. 

 

"Um… Yeah." 

 

"Hm, fine." In Sherlock's personal opinion, Mendelssohn was a brilliant man for featuring so many singers. In fact, Mendelssohn was his favorite composer of all bloody time after this most recent development.

 

"Where do you live?"

 

"You'll see."

 

"You're not kidnapping me right before the Christmas concert, are you Holmes?" 

 

"That's precisely what I'm doing." 

 


	55. Frosty the Snowman - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 19
> 
> Today's prompt is
> 
> Frosty the Snowman. I hope no reader died from the shock of my terrible smut yesterday (Well, today. Shh.)
> 
> Anne has had her finals so she's a bit behind but I'll post her entries for Choir and today's as they come in. And Golfechoromeo is a bit late today because work. And I can't stay up and wait much longer because I have a seminar tomorrow morning. Pfft. Life, why must you get in the way?

__  
Sherlock came home to find the flat empty. He had looked forward to seeing them. John and Hamish. For a moment he was disappointed before he realised where they'd be. "Of course," he said under his breath. He turned on his heel and headed back down the stairs and back outside. He found them out back by Mrs. Hudson's bins.  
  
"Dad!" Hamish shouted, lighting up at the sight of Sherlock. He tore himself away from the snowman he had been building with John and started running toward Sherlock. The jacket John had put him in was a size too big ("He'll grow into it by the end of the winter.") and his boots were hard to run in so he flapped his arms a bit like a penguin.  
  
Sherlock smiled. He was so impossibly small, their son. Almost six and infinitely wise in his childlike way.  
  
"Hamish," Sherlock said, leaning over and extending his arms to ready himself for a hug. But Hamish tripped on his own feet and fell face first in the snow.  
  
Silence.  
  
Both John and Sherlock started to run toward their son, but Sherlock got there first. He came to his knees in the snow and flipped Hamish over. A very small, rosy coloured face looked up at him in blank surprise. And then it started to wail. John knelt in the snow with a plop and pushed Hamish's hair out of his face. There wasn't a scratch on him; it was only the fright that was making him cry.  
  
Sherlock scooped him up in his arms and Hamish gripped the collar of his coat in his chubby fists.  
  
"Oh dear, Hamish," John said soothingly, dusting the snow out of his hair and scooping it out of the back of his neck.  
  
Hamish sniffled and pressed his face to Sherlock's neck. "Dad," he said, his voice quivering.  
  
"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock asked. He came to a stand and started walking with him. John smiled sadly at them; he hated Hamish being sad but seeing him in Sherlock's secure arms, latched on with his legs around Sherlock's middle and with a white-knuckle grip was was very touching.  
  
Hamish didn't answer but let himself be soothed by steady rocking of Sherlock's steps.  
  
"Dad?" Hamish whispered again after a few minutes.  
  
"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock whispered back.  
  
"Do snowmen get cold?"  
  
"I imagine they don't," Sherlock said. _They aren't sentient, Hamish, but you'll learn that later._  
  
"Can Frosty have your scarf in case?" Hamish whispered. He pulled back to look at Sherlock with big, hopeful eyes. His eyelashes were sticking together in clumps from tears and his nose was red and shiny. It terrified Sherlock how much he couldn't deny this little boy anything. Even his favourite blue scarf.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said.  
  
Hamish smiled a toothy and wide grin, and put his small hands on his dad's cheeks and then kissed him square on the lips. Then he leaned in to Sherlock's ear and whispered.  


"I love you."

Sherlock sometimes wondered if there was something broken in him that he couldn't say those three words back as often as he heard them. Hamish didn't whisper the words to John; he shouted them happily and John returned the words with equal enthusiasm. But telling Sherlock was always done quietly and secretively, because it stung Hamish when Sherlock couldn't say it back. 

"We'll have John make us hot chocolate when we get back inside," Sherlock said. Hamish nodded. "Come on. Let's dress the snowman in my scarf," Sherlock said.

"Frosty," Hamish corrected. He was much like Sherlock in that respect; he never let the opportunity to correct someone pass by. He kicked his legs so Sherlock would let him down and then ran in his penguin-like way back to the snowman.

"Why Frosty?" Sherlock said.

"Daddy John said it's what all snowmen are called," Hamish said.

"Mm, daddy John has no imagination," Sherlock said with a smirk in John's direction. John let it slide as he was still feeling a little soft inside from watching Sherlock carry Hamish.

Sherlock took his scarf off and gave it a little regretful look before he wrapped it around the snowman's neck.

"There. What do you think, Hamish?" he asked.

"He looks _gorgeous_ ," Hamish said, making Sherlock and John both laugh. It was one of the compliments John gave Sherlock most often.

"Come on, Hams, let's go make that hot chocolate," John said, holding out his hand for Hamish to take. Hamish took it and started off at a run, trying to pull John along with him. 

Sherlock looked back at the snowman with its eyes made from pebbles and small sticks for arms. It was a little lopsided. But Hamish had made it. His Hamish. His son.

"Wait! Hamish!" he called out. He strode forward and picked Hamish up, resting him on his hip. "I love you, too," he whispered.

He made an internal promise to Hamish that he one day he would be able to say it loudly like John did.

 

But the whispered words were more than enough for Hamish, who refused to be let down from Sherlock's arms for the rest of the day and slept tightly curled up next to him that night.


	56. Frosty the Snowman - Golfechoromeo

Sherlock had never really like his family's lake house in Bagshot.  Even now, after his parents had left it to be shared between their two sons, the memories of his painful formative childhood and teenage years lingered in the wall.  Of course, shagging John senseless in every room of the house had helped.  How could it not?  Sherlock had spent their first trips their with his focus on forcing out the myriad unpleasant memories with ones to make him riled up and want to take John on every surface of that old house.  
  
John brought life into the house in a way that Sherlock had never seen it before.  Life didn't exist in the Holmes' Bagshot house.  Warmth was always absent.  Christmases at the house were miserable when Sherlock was growing up, but with John? There was a hint of what Sherlock assumed was the "Christmas magic" that people were always so sentimental about.  A lightness.  A happiness.   
  
That wasn't to say that Sherlock was suddenly a different person in the house just because John was there.  On the contrary, Sherlock was still just as difficult and argumentative as ever.  The house did something to him.  It made him revert back to his old ways before John entered into his life.  He was nastier, more critical, and would say things to hurts those around him and to get a rise out of them.  The problem was that the only person around Sherlock was John.  
  
On that particular snowy afternoon, Sherlock was curled up on the couch, an old blanket thrown over his shoulders, staring moodily into the fireplace.  John had stormed out of the house after donning his coat, hat, gloves, and boots.   
  
"If you want to be a git, then fine!" John had shouted, tugging his hat down forcefully onto his head.  "But I am not going to _sit_ here and be talked to and treated like this, Sherlock.  I am not _them_.  I am on your side and you just... You act like..."  But he hadn't finished his thought as he stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him.   
  
Sherlock realised he had gone too far.  There were only so many times that John could be referred to as simple minded before he snapped.  Even though Sherlock didn't mean it.  He never meant it.  He loved John and thought more highly of John than anyone else, including himself sometimes.   
  
He would need to go out and look for John.  He was probably walking through the streets of the little town, blowing off steam by going for a walk.  John had already gone on three walks so far that week, Sherlock driving him to his breaking point so easily.  With a sigh, Sherlock quickly threw on his shoes, coat, and scarf and walked outside.  He was just about to turn and walk down the street when John's voice stopped him.  
  
"Sherlock?" he asked with genuine confusion.  "Where are you going?"  
  
Sherlock turned and looked, surprised to see John rolling snow and packing it into the shape of a snowman.   
  
"Looking for you," Sherlock responded.  "What are you doing?  Decide to forgo your usual walk of frustration?"  He walked across the front lawn and watched John continue to build the snowman.   
  
"The brilliant detective who's so much smarter than I am can't even tell what I'm doing by rolling a smaller ball of snow on top of a larger one?" John asked, arching a skeptical eyebrow.  
  
"I deserved that, I suppose, on some level," Sherlock conceded.  It was as close as he would give to an apology, but he would show John his regret later.  He would moan it into John's ear as he clenched his arse around John's cock.  He would show he was sorry by begging John to fuck him harder, to let him come.  But for now, he would stand by John in the cold snow and help him build a snowman.   
  
"Why are you building a snowman anyway?" Sherlock asked some time later as he helped find sticks for arms.   
  
"Didn't feel like walking," John said as he dug through the snow to find rocks for the eyes, mouth, and buttons.   
  
"That's new," Sherlock said.  "You went for a walk yesterday.  You usually choose to go for walks."  
  
"Not today," John said, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.  "Not after..."  
  
Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked at John straight on.  "Not after...what, John?" he asked, feeling vulnerable since it seemed John had the upper hand.  What had he missed?  
  
"Not after our fight," John said.  "That one was... a bad one.  I didn't want to be too far away in case you needed me.  So I thought I'd stay here, build a snowman, and by the time I finished it, I would have calmed down enough to come back inside and not want to punch you in the face."  
  
Sherlock smiled as they began to turn the spheres of snow into something that resembled something like a person.  "I was surprised you didn't," he said.  "But this certainly is time consuming.  Who would have known that this would make hours pass?"  
  
John shook his head, a small smile on his lips.  "You've never made a snowman before," he said.  It wasn't a question.  It was a statement.  "No wonder you hated it here.  You couldn't be a child if you never made a snowman.  I'm sorry that this place bring back such bad memories."  
  
Sherlock blinked a few times, the warmth John brought into the house now spreading across the lawn and his body.  Reaching out, Sherlock took John's hand in his own.  "They're not all bad," he whispered, watching John arrange a few rocks into a smile on the snowman's face.


	57. Frosty the Snowman - Anne

"If you build it that way, the snowman will lack structural integrity!" Sherlock insisted, packing additional snow onto the middle portion of John's engineering feat of a snowman. He still insisted that the massive snowman John wanted to build was frankly impossible to execute, but his slightly older friend had started off on the task anyway, ignoring him with a dismissive wave of his hand. Age was his argument mostly; age and experience. According to John, he knew what he was doing in the delicate art of snowman-building. 

 

  
_"Sherlock, you've clearly never built a snowman before. He'll stand up just fine."_ Of course the snowman hadn't stood up all that well on this particular snowy day. For while it was true that the snowman could potentially last for a reasonable amount of time as a free-standing monument to the holidays, it remained unclear just how the two of them could hoist the middle section of packed snow onto the bottom ball. It seemed like an impossible feat that would require great strength, which meant that Sherlock was going to have to summon Mycroft, who was deep into  _Crime and Punishment,_ and just pretentious enough to reject the pleadings of his younger brother and his younger brother's best friend. Mycroft was an arse now that he had gone off to university, robbing his ten year old brother of his sanity over the Christmas season in his quest for academic enlightenment. 

 

After a few more minutes of struggling against the snow, the ball they were trying to hoist split down the middle and crumbled, leaving John a laughing mess. Sherlock was not amused. He had gotten a great deal of snow in his hair, and shook his head wildly until the powder either flew from his curls or melted.

 

"I _told_ you! I told you it wouldn't work," he chided, barely getting a word in before John shoved more snow in his direction and wrestled him to the ground. " _John!_ Cut it out! You're acting like a child." 

 

"No, we're making snow angels." 

 

"But I'm cold and my hair's damp," the younger boy whined, sniffling loudly. 

 

"Me too," John admitted, face flushed with the cold. However, it was clear by his expression that he refused to back down. Sherlock knew that look of defiance well and so he joined John in the snow with a huff, still scowling as he lay down in the white. If his best friend could survive the terrors of the winter, then he could as well. Besides, the snow was pretty and soft, and Sherlock was exhausted by his efforts to bring Frosty to life. John hummed his approval, grabbing the scarf that had been secreted from Sherlock's room to adorn their masterpiece and fixing it around Sherlock's neck in addition to the one he already had on to keep his young friend warm. "Better?" he asked softly, smiling weakly at the way Sherlock's slim frame was shaking. 

 

"Yes."

 

"We'll go inside right after. Don't want you to get a chill." 

 

"I'm fine." 

 

"Course you are." John let himself relax into his snowy nest, spreading his arms and pushing them up and down through the snow with a gleeful giggle. Sherlock did the same, still unable to break free of his habit of looking to John as an example. 

 

" _Frosty the snowman, was a jolly happy soul…_ " Sherlock immediately fell into giggles again, staring at the foundations of a snowman that was clearly never fated to come into existence. " _With a corncob pipe and a button nose, and two eyes made out of coals._ "

 

"Mm, not quite John. I highly suggest you stay away from the field of engineering, you dolt. Maybe you should stick to one of the lesser fields of study. Like medicine." John snorted at Sherlock in amusement, halting his angel making process to ruffle the younger boy's hair. At which point he felt how severely Sherlock was shivering and abandoned his project altogether. 

 

"Sherlock, you're freezing," He leapt up adroitly, brushing snow off his jacket and reassuming his position as Sherlock's caretaker by whisking his friend away into the house to warm him up with a plethora of blankets, warm apple cider, and Christmas cartoons. And cuddles. Despite all of Sherlock's protests about his age and need for personal space, he really seemed to like cuddles. 

 

John, on the other hand, insisted that cuddles were necessary to keep Sherlock from getting sick. He would know. After all, John was going to study medicine.


	58. Captain Watson Comes Home for Christmas - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! SORRY AGAIN UGH. Such guilt for being late but you see there was a thing and I was distracted by the thing and then the dog ate my homework. ANYWAY, here they are. Captain Watson Comes Home for Christmas!

__  
John had been with the army for the entirety of his adult life so he didn't know why they were punishing him by sending him on leave over Christmas. He had only one place he could go and he really wasn't looking forward to it. Harry would drink over the holidays if her past patterns were anything to judge by. Which they usually were. He would rather someone with a real family to go home to got the leave, but apparently it was 'his turn' and no matter amount of protesting would change that. He considered going abroad somewhere, Spain maybe, but he did really miss England and London in particular.  
  
So in London he was. It was windy and rain was smacking him in the face where he was walking. He preferred it to the scene he had left at Harry's flat though; Harry and Clara yelling at each other about the amount of wine bottles that had been opened that evening. He had tried mediating but there really hadn't been a point. They were both passionate people and John knew he wanted to be there even less for the make-up portion of the evening than he did for the fighting portion.  
  
And so he walked. Up and down the streets of London, stopping only at an all-night café that didn't seem to care it was Christmas Eve for a cup of tea to warm him up. It was three in the morning when he finally turned in the direction of Harry's flat and started walking back.  
  
There was hardly a soul to be seen. It was a refreshing silence after the yelling at Harry's but it also sucked the life out of John and made him want to disturb the peace.

About twenty minutes away from Harry's, he saw a man walking down the opposite side of the street. He wore a long coat and had a manic look on his face. John, so used to stealth, was hidden in shadow. There was something so majestic about the man that demanded his attention that he couldn't look away until the man turned a corner and disappeared. He'd been handsome, for a bloke, and John had felt inexplicably drawn to him. It ruffled him. Whatever that man had, he wanted more of. And he pushed _that_ out of his mind as quickly as he could.

 

That is, until he met that man again a little over a year later when he limped in to a lab at Bart's hospital to see a head of unruly hair turn to look at him and that face, now calm and annoyingly arrogant, scanned over him. 

And just as Sherlock had disturbed that quiet December walk, he took out the peace out of John's life.

John had never loved anyone more.


	59. Captain Watson Comes Home for Christmas - Golfechoromeo

__  
  
Sherlock sits at his usual table in Speedy's cafe, his leg bobbing up and down.  The anticipation and excitement is torturous.  He has John's most recent letter to him lying flat on the table in front of him, his empty tea cup sitting beside it.  The paper lies completely flat, having been read so many times at this point that the creases of its original folds are almost non-existent.  Sherlock's eyes scan the letter again, although this action is perfunctory; the entire message has been committed to memory.  
  
_My Gorgeous Sherlock,_  
  


_This is going to be a quick letter from me because I have to go out on patrols, but not before I tell you that I will definitely be coming home for leave Christmas week.  I don't know how I managed to make that one happen, but Colonel Williams granted it to me.  I'll be getting in on December 23 in the early evening.  Not sure about the specific time because I don't know what the bus schedule will be like._

_Let's meet at Speedy's, though.  As much as I miss you, I miss those jammy biscuits just as much if not more.  Sorry, Sugar, that's just how it is._

I love you and I'll see you in a few days. 

_John_

Sherlock looks at his watch.  It's nearing 5:30pm.  Surely this is around the time of early evening.  Surely John should be walking into the door of Speedy's at any moment.  Surely this torture of clock watching would be over soon. 

  
But soon 5:30pm became 6:00pm and John still wasn't there and there was no way that it could still be considered early evening in Sherlock's eyes.  What had happened?   
Something must have happened.  Had something happened that night on patrols?  No, surely Mycroft would have been immediately notified and then Sherlock by proxy.  Had there been an incident with his plane?  Had it crashed?  What about the bus?  Something must have happened.  A flat tire?  An accident?  What if John changed his mind?  What if John met someone on the bus and fell in love and ditched him and-

 

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson says as she clears his cup away and replaces it with a glass of water.  "You must calm down, dear.  John will be here soon."  He looks up at her and the anxiety is clear in his eyes.  "I think you've had enough caffeine for the time being, as well," she says, glancing out the window, and Sherlock can see that she's tense about John's lateness as well.  "I'm sure it's just the bus," Mrs. Hudson says nonchalantly.  "You know how slow they run when the weather is snowy."

 

Sherlock says nothing but continues to jangle his leg in impatience as he gazes out the window, waiting for the first glance of his John, home from the war.  Home for Christmas. 

The minutes pass on. 

6:10.

6:20. 

6:30. 

No John. 

A deep despair begins to fall onto Sherlock's entire being.  John is not coming.  John would never keep him waiting.  And yet, there Sherlock sits, his self control barely able to keep him from pressing his nose against the glass of the window or running out onto the street and shouting his name or flying himself to Afghanistan in order to-

 

"John," Sherlock says as the young army doctor comes into view, running down the street at top speed and his heart swells.  John hasn't forgotten about him.  He hasn't found someone new.  He hasn't been injured or...worse.  He is coming.  Home. 

 

Unable to sit Sherlock moves to the door and opens it.  He barely steps onto the sidewalk when John's body hurtles into his, the two lovers embracing, holding onto each other, unable to let go after months and months of being apart.  

 

"John," Sherlock whispers, surprising himself at the amount of emotion in his voice.  It's sentiment.  And he doesn't care.

"Sherlock," John whispers back, and Sherlock knows that when he pulls back to look at John's face, there will be tears on the soldier's face.  He doesn't even realise that there will also be tears on his own.  

They pull apart from the embrace and Sherlock is right, of course.  There are tears on John's face.  And the happiest smile Sherlock can ever remember seeing. 

They kiss.

London around them fades.  There is nothing that matters except for John.  The shoppers, the carolers, the taxis, the loud buzz of London.  None of exists.  Only John. 

 

"Home," Sherlock says in a tone reflecting his urgency, his want, his need.  They waste no time.  John scoops his bag up onto his shoulder and grabs onto Sherlock's hand tightly, pulling him towards the door of 221B. 

 

An hour later, John is pushing deep into Sherlock, hovering above him, sweating, panting, moaning.  Sherlock is coming undone at the seams, feeling filled up in every sense of the phrase. 

"Captain...Watson," Sherlock says, closing his eyes in pleasure as John grazes his prostate.  "Come for me... You're home."

"Yes, Gorgeous, I am," John says, barely keeping himself together. 

"Come... home," Sherlock manages to say one last time before the two topple over the edge, spilling onto and into each other in a cry and moan of bliss. 

Slipped under the door in this moment is John's most recent letter to Sherlock, still unfolded, for how could Mrs. Hudson tamper with something Sherlock loves so much?  The letter announcing John's return home to Baker Street for Christmas.


	60. Captain Watson Comes Home for Christmas - Anne

 

Mike had only given him a name and a number for his homecoming, because Mike was being tactical; John wasn't the type to accept help. Not from anyone.

 

This was different, though. This particular name and number were his way of getting accommodations now that he was back in London. Nothing more. He would pay the rent on his own, he would keep to himself, and he would reenlist as soon as his bloody shoulder stopped bothering him. 

 

The mysterious man he had texted had replied in a timely fashion with no more than a few words and an address. 

 

Yes, Captain Watson was invited to move into the spare room upstairs (rent uncertain as of this point as he didn't know it off the top of his head). No, it would not be a problem if he came in on Christmas (as it was a pointless consumer holiday and his family was quite unsuitable). 

 

The brief conversation had been a bit odd, even by John's standards, but if Sherlock Holmes was offering a flat he could afford in London, then it was of no importance to him if his flatmate was a bit out of the ordinary. 

 

When John's plane finally landed, he took a cab into Central London to look at the place that his disappointing army pension had just barely covered, once again contriving to reenlist at the next possible juncture. There was no way he could stay, mainly because he was suddenly useless in the urban order of the city. John didn't like being useless. 

 

He limped up to the door of his new abode with a bottle of wine (technically a gift for his new flatmate, but he intended on drinking most of the bottle himself), feeling vulnerable and exposed without a military weapon at his disposal. Among civilians. He didn't need an assault rifle. Right. In all of his memory, John had never felt so naked, even though he was dressed in full uniform. It was clear as soon as the door swung open at his rapping that he would need the bloody wine. He had never seen someone looking so absolutely unapproachable. Sherlock Holmes was beautiful, but cold, like a life-sized diamond. Of course, John had encountered countless prisoners held for interrogation that had been dubiously in need of medical attention, handfuls of the cruelest assassins, and characters so suspect that John doubted they were even human; even the villains that clearly loathed him for staving off death hadn't looked at him quite like this. John decided the difference was the feeling of intelligence that Sherlock exuded, as well as the sensation that the other man was stripping his naked body of its very skin to see his contents.

 

"Captain John Watson," he offered in introduction, standing at attention before he realized that he was no longer expected to do so.

 

"I assumed as much," Sherlock replied, clearing his throat as John coaxed his body to relax, ever cognizant of the fact that he still looked quite tense. Maybe that was what the wine was for. "Your room is upstairs, as promised."

 

"Right. Fine." John wanted to run, but he simply clenched his jaw and proceeded into the flat, leaning as little on his cane as he possibly could. He didn't want Sherlock Holmes to think he was a bloody invalid. "I brought wine." 

 

"I don't drink." 

 

"Um… Brilliant," John said with a curt nod, unsurprised to feel that his whole face was hurting from being so tense. Sherlock pivoted away from him gracefully, ignoring the (psychosomatic) limp for the time being. He marched into the flat like a god, and John couldn't help but stare, eyes widening as he was graced with the perfect swell of Sherlock's arse. 

 

"I'll get us wine glasses."

 

As it turned out, Sherlock did drink. And when they finished the bottle of wine, he rummaged around in his kitchen (that he actually referred to as his lab), and produced a bottle of very expensive scotch. At which point, John got utterly, blissfully pissed. 

 

"Yur a beautiful man, Sherlock Holmes. Dunno if you knew, but you have a nice  _arse_.  _Jesus_." Sherlock chuckled at that, pale face flushed red from all the drinking. "I think we should sleep together," John added, too drunk to be embarrassed. 

 

"Mm, do you?" 

 

"Mmhm. Jus' got back from being bloody shot at 'n bloody Afghanistan. Have these fucking nightmares an' a limp an' a fucking tremor in m' hand. An' I don't want to go to Harry's 'cause of the drinking. Think it would be nice t' have sex with such a gorgeous man." Sherlock's face lost some of it's mirth as John explained just why they should sleep together, although he still felt inhumanly warm when John called him gorgeous. Why was he drunk? Why was he flirting with this random man? Possibly because Captain John Watson was home for Christmas, and Sherlock wanted more than anything to get him out of his clothes. Well… that was what he wanted until John's last comment. Then he didn't know what he wanted. 

 

"Glad to have your opinion." 

 

John woke up in the morning with a splitting headache. For a moment, his breath caught in his throat and he thought he would be sick from fear and confusion alone. Where  _was_ he? Who was he with? And then he remembered coming into London on a plane, and while he didn't immediately remember Sherlock's face, he looked down and was gratefully reminded. They were both fully dressed (although John had been relieved of his uniform), and judging from the various things lying around the room, John concluded they were in Sherlock's bed. The other man's head was resting on John's chest and Sherlock was gripping John's undershirt so tightly that John was forced to the conclusion that Sherlock was hanging onto him for dear life.

 

Without any warning, sobs began to wrack John's body until Sherlock moaned his dissent, barely surfacing from sleep. Pale eyes finally blinked open moments later and, after a moment of complete stillness that John attributed to Sherlock's own cloudy recollection of the night before, his gorgeous sleep mate jolted into animation. 

 

"What's wrong? What's happened?" he mumbled, deep voice hoarse. 

 

"Nothing. It's nothing. We didn't…?" 

 

"No. God, no."

 

"Good. That's good. Wait, _god_ no?"

 

"I just didn't want to help you up the stairs in the state you were in. Figured you wouldn't mind." 

 

"I wouldn't. I don't." John managed to contain himself, although his eyes remained red and puffy and he couldn't help but sniffle occasionally. Sherlock reassumed his position on the other man's chest under the assumption that, if John said he didn't mind, he was free to continue lounging, although he didn't cling like he had before. The soldier seemed to be unable to do anything but clear his throat, hoping that by doing so he would find some trivial topic of conversation that Sherlock wouldn't simply bat aside or ignore completely. He couldn't think of anything, so they remained in somewhat uncomfortable silence until Sherlock decided to speak again. 

 

"Of course, just because we didn't doesn't mean I wouldn't. Just… the circumstances were not ideal."

 

"No, right. Circumstances. It's fine." 

 

"John, I wanted to. I just wasn't…"

 

"Sherlock, I was very drunk. I understand why you didn't. Thank you." Sherlock considered the other man's reply, squirming against John's side until he was properly nested once more. 

 

"And?"

 

"And what?"

 

"Well, what about you?"

 

"Sherlock, of course I want to. I'm almost positive I was the one who brought it up."

 

"Oh. Right. That's fine then. Good." John let out a deep sigh, relaxing once more now that it had basically been decided that he was going to be very well taken care of in 221B. He let himself drift asleep as beautiful warm light streamed into Sherlock's room from the window, content with his new flatmate holding him securely into place.


	61. Fuzzy Slippers and Men Who Wear Them - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 21 December
> 
> Today's prompt is Fuzzy Slippers and Men Who Wear Them. I didn't expect my ficlet to go as it did but hahaha, okay.

"Must you giggle? It's so undignified," Sherlock said. He looked sour which was in great contrast with John's face.   
  
"I think we should name them. There's an obvious choice. Can you deduce it?" John asked, not stopping his giggles. He shook the bunny rabbit slippers in front of Sherlock's face and then dropped them on the floor. "Go on then, but Blue and Bell on."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard it caused a pain in his head. "I'm not going to name them like they're _pets,_ John. Don't be ridiculous."   
  
John, still giggling, got to his knees and wrestled the reluctant detective's feet into the white slippers. "These are really great. I saw some in a dog design. I should get them and we'll match."  
  
"This is the most foolish Christmas present anyone has ever got me," Sherlock said, looking down at the fuzzy things in disgust.  
  
"Isn't it great? And you'll have to wear them at least through the day or you'll be rude. And we've talked about trying _not_ to be rude, haven't we?" John said.  
  
"I will do no such thing. I will kick them off as soon as you're far enough away so you can't stop me," Sherlock said.  
  
"Well, fine. I'll just have to stay near then," John said. He reached over to his chair and got the newspaper he had been reading and settled in with his back against Sherlock's legs.   
  
Sherlock sighed. John was in one of his stubborn, 'funny' moods. "You're in your thirties. _Thirties_ , John. You were a soldier. You're a doctor. How can you possibly be this childish?"  
  
"Probably has something to do with the mulled wine," John said a little absently. They had imbibed on a few small mugs each before settling in by the fire. Sherlock had complained of cold feet and John had, giggling, got a gift from under the tree. Sherlock had tore into it with excitement and his face had fallen so spectacularly at the sight of the polyester fabric that John had not been able to stop giggling since.   
  
"I like it better when you get aroused from drinking," Sherlock said, pouting.  
  
" _Sherlock_!" John said. They hadn't been together all that long and hearing Sherlock say risqué things was still very new and shocked him each time.   
  
"Yes, John?" Sherlock said, his voice dropping to a lower register. He wrapped his legs around John's waist and placed his slipper-clad feet on his inner thighs. He felt John stiffen and then relax again.   
  
"I'm reading, Sherlock," John said.  
  
"Mhm," Sherlock said as his left foot crept inwards and a bunny face nestled into John's crotch.   
  
John looked down from behind his paper and saw the bunny's ears flopping as Sherlock started working his foot. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Going to make these slippers something you associate with sex with me so you blush each time you see them," Sherlock said smugly.   
  
"I don't blush," John said breathlessly. His cock had hardened at an alarming rate.  
  
"You do. Undo your trousers," Sherlock said.   
  
John did not hesitate to obey. The soft threads of the slippers tickled his cock and he leaned back heavily on the chair. "You'll end up staining them," he said, setting the newspaper aside.  
  
"Yes, I know. And you'll be in charge of telling everyone who asks about it if you make me wear them," Sherlock said. He put a foot to either side of John's cock and started rubbing it.   
  
"Oh God, that feels so good and is so wrong," John said with a breathy giggle. The way the fuzz was tickling the underside of the head of his cock was sending shivers down through the inside of his thighs. "Christ, you're a mad man."  
  
"Yes, John. Now shut up. I'm concentrating," Sherlock said. It was difficult to keep the slippers on while he was giving John a foot job, but it was imperative that he did. He intended 'Blue' and 'Bell' to mop up the mess John was about to make. Hopefully. If he'd been using his hands, he could have adjusted his grip, speed, tightness and perhaps incorporated his mouth, but as he'd never given a foot job before he only had one speed. It seemed to be working though, judging by the way John was breathing.   
  
John turned his head and pressed it into Sherlock's thigh. He kept an eye on Sherlock's feet and, more importantly, the slippers. The unexpected sexual nature of them took him by surprise and he couldn't disguise how they turned him on.  
  
Sherlock moved his hands to John's head and massaged it. There was a low growl at the back of his throat, a purely manipulative and calculated thing; he knew John liked it.   
  
"This was not what I was imagining when I bought them," John said. He was thrusting his hips up into the soft fabric, making it even more difficult Sherlock to do what it was he was doing. "S'good," he moaned.  
  
"Shut up," Sherlock said again. It took exactly nine minutes and forty-seven seconds more of it until John came with his eyes squeezed shut and a high pitched moan. It was Sherlock's time to giggle as he rubbed the bunny faces over all the little puddles of come. He held his feet out to inspect them. "Hmm. Blue and Bell's fur looks a little matted."  
  
John opened his eyes and looked at them. He blushed at the memory of his strong orgasm and how it had led to the slippers looking like _that_. "Maybe we should put them in your closet for now," he said.  
  
"Excellent idea, John. Make me some tea while you're up."  
  



	62. Fuzzy Slippers and Men Who Wear Them - Golfechoromeo

__  
  
It had taken much convincing on Greg Lestrade's part to get Sherlock to even entertain the idea of going to the Christmas party hosted by Bart's.  Molly had extended the invitation to the two of them seeing as they spent a lot of their time together in the morgue working on cases.  Sherlock was still resistant to going and it was only when Mrs. Hudson threatened not to make her cinnamon buns for breakfast Christmas morning that Sherlock finally relented.  
  
The party was just as dull as Sherlock had thought it would be.  Forced conversation.  Too much booze.  The women in low cut and tight dresses.  The men trying to outshine one another.  It was every bit as dull and insufferable as Sherlock had been expecting.  
  
And then it got worse.  
  
"Alright everyone!" Molly shouted happily.  "It's time for the Christmas gift grab bag! Everyone put their presents under the tree, yeah?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Of course he hadn't bothered getting a gift but Greg seemed to have helped him anyway, moving forward and putting two wrapped presents beneath it.   
  
"You're welcome," he said as he walked back to Sherlock.  
  
"I didn't say thank you," Sherlock said arrogantly.  "This is stupid."  
  
Sherlock sulked, crossing his arms, leaning against the far wall, watching as people opened their presents at random.  He amused himself somewhat by trying to deduce what the gifts were before they were opened.  He was doing relatively well when Molly called his name.  
  
"Sherlock! You next!"  
  
The room went quiet and it seemed that everyone was holding their breath.  Sherlock didn't even know most of the people at the party, but it seemed that they knew him, or had heard of him, at least.  He walked forward and picked up a gift and shook it.  Something soft, though with substance.  He frowned.  Sherlock didn't know what was in this box.  
  
"Open it up!" Molly said excitedly, her wine glass substantially less filled than it had been moments ago.  
  
Reluctantly, Sherlock tore at the wrapping paper and opened the box.  
  
"Ah," he said slowly, wishing that not every single pair of eyes in the room was on him.  
  
"What is it?" Greg asked, looking giddy.  "Take it out and let us see!"  
  
With a grimace, Sherlock pulled out a pair of fuzzy red and green slippers, as the entire party began to laugh.  
  
"Oi, Holmes! Put 'em on!" came a voice.  
  
"Yeah, Sherlock. Put them on!"  
  
"Let's see those beauties!"  
  
Sherlock was murderous, ready to lay waste to the soul who had provided this gift that was about to undermine his entire reputation that he had so carefully cultivated.  But he also knew that if he were to get anything from these moronic sods in the future, he would need to humour them once.  Just this once.  And then never again.   
  
Sherlock sat on the floor and slid off his shoes and slid on the slippers that he had every intention of burning and dismembering and torturing them upon his return back to Baker Street that evening.   
  
There was a round of applause from everyone in the room when Sherlock stood up.  He gave a forced smile that lasted for less than a fraction of a second before he grimaced again and moved back to his place along the wall. The novelty of Sherlock and the fuzzy slippers had worn off as the next person moved forward and opened his gift, but Sherlock was not paying attention.  He was still focused on exactly how he was going to completely and irrevocably destroy every solitary fibre of the slippers when he got home.  
  
The party continued around him and Sherlock barely noticed when a person stood beside him.  
  
"Hello," the man said and Sherlock turned to look at the very attractive face, but said nothing in response.  
  
"Sorry about the slippers," the man said, sounding truly apologetic.  "I had forgotten to get a gift for this stupid exchange so I stopped before I got here and bought the first thing I saw."  
  
Sherlock was intrigued and fascinated by this man, in spite of himself.  But still, he said nothing.  
  
"I got a gift certificate to a cafe as the gift I chose," the man said.  "Some place called Speedy's?  I'm not familiar with it.  Have you ever heard of it?"  
  
Surely this man was hitting on him.  He must have known who he was talking to and where he lived.  Didn't everyone?  But as Sherlock looked at the man, there was not a trace of anything less than genuine on his face.   
  
"I have," Sherlock said.  "Perhaps we can go in the morning."  
  
The man looked confused.  "Sorry?"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said as he pushed himself off the wall.  "Look me up and come over after this dull party if you're interested and bring that gift certificate with you."  He began to walk out of the room with a smirk on his face.  
  
The next morning, Sherlock rolled out of his bed, his body a bit sore and aching, but in the most pleasant way.  He could hear movement from the kitchen and saw John there, wearing Sherlock's dressing gown and those disastrous fuzzy slippers as he made tea.   


"They look better on you," Sherlock said as he sat at the table.

"Keep up the compliments," John said with a laugh.  "After all, I _am_ the one who's going to be treating you to breakfast this morning.  Although, I suppose you are."

Sherlock frowned.  "What are you talking about?"

John smirked.  "The gift card.  It was from you, you git.  It was signed by Sherlock Holmes.  And look what I got you? These hideous, yet quite comfortable, Christmas slippers."

With a mental note to buy Greg a nice bottle of whiskey as a thank you, Sherlock took a sip of his tea, hating the fact that he was so indebted to such a hideous pair of fuzzy slippers.


	63. Fuzzy Slippers and Men Who Wear Them - Anne

Sherlock and John had not been dating long. In fact, John was hesitant to even say they were dating considering the fact that he hadn't received the other boy's permission and didn't have half the courage required to ask for it.

 

Sherlock saw him primarily in Chemistry Lecture and only came over occasionally, usually bringing food in takeaway containers as an offering, or else rudely insisting that John take him out somewhere. 

 

It was easiest this way, as opposed to spending time at Sherlock's place; Sherlock typically liked to keep his visits short and John didn't want to have to worry about overstaying his welcome. Although… Sherlock had been gradually staying longer. They were up to enough time for sex and a movie, which could be a considerable number of hours depending on the movie. (John, of course, found one of the Lord of the Rings movies, or another film of comparable length preferable.) 

 

The time Sherlock desired to have intercourse with John Watson also increased in length, reaching a maximum at almost four blissful hours, during which John thought he had fallen through a wormhole and ended up in heaven. 

 

It was a shock to both of them that Sherlock seemed to not only be comfortable during the time he spent with John, but also clearly wanted more of it. After all, he had warned John during the first date that if he expected them to be more than friends who had sex, he would be very disappointed. 

 

To Sherlock's dismay (he hated being wrong), he was very much attached to John within a few weeks, just in time for winter holiday to finally roll around. He had said goodbye reluctantly, and sulked through Christmas with his mobile phone always close by so that he could respond to John's constant texts. They made plans together; plans that grew increasingly more intense as the time passed. They would meet at John's room as soon as they both got back to campus and shag until one of them (or both of them) gave out from exhaustion, a concept that made Sherlock squirm with restless anticipation. His family was just glad he was occupied. Previous years had included Christmas disasters, or experiments as Sherlock liked to call them.

 

When John finally laid eyes on Sherlock after a month apart, an unidentifiable noise escape his lips, and only mere moments passed before he had his hands on the other boy as well. _Want. Need. Mine._ And Sherlock obliged him, letting John quite literally manhandle him into his dorm room and press him down onto the bed, already hard as a brick. The sex was quite acceptable (which meant mind-blowing in Sherlock-speak), and it was with great joy that Sherlock curled up in bed beside his long absent lover and went to sleep without complaint. John imagined it was because Sherlock was catering to his plebeian need for comfort, or because Sherlock was too lazy to go back to his dorm room after such an energetic romp in the sack. Of course, Sherlock had decided weeks prior that leaving was out of the question. John wanted him to stay; he would stay. There was no particular reason he could think of why he needed to be alone while he slept. 

 

Trust. It was coming extremely slowly to Sherlock considering how much he adored John Watson. This was a big step for him. Although he would never admit it to John, he had never spent the night with another person before; he had lost his virginity to John and the whole process was still shockingly foreign to him despite his enormous intellect. Trust, trust, trust. He was learning, though. 

 

It was his new progress in the field of trusting John that made the shocking discovery of a pair of bright red, fuzzy slippers so disturbing. He had only snuck out of bed for a drink of water and a trip to the bathroom in the morning after all; he hadn't expected to find signs of betrayal. At least not immediately. Sherlock was newly damaged and then outraged. Hurt, broken, frozen, boiling, destroyed, distraught… John had had someone else over. A woman. Who had left her slippers in his bloody room. Apparently having a male sexual partner wasn't enough for the only recently bisexual John, and while Sherlock hadn't expected to be cheated on, he realized that John had never placed a label to their relationship or declared monogamy. 

 

Which meant that this was technically allowed, right? 

 

Sherlock tugged at his hair and bit his lip in a passionate attempt to absorb emotion before he began to don his hastily discarded clothes, kicking furniture out of his way and cursing loudly as he did so. He would not be coming back; he would fucking never speak to John again, not even to provide help for Chemistry homework. 

 

When John finally woke up, roused by a loud bang that shocked him out of his otherwise peaceful sleep, it was to see Sherlock storming towards the door in full form. Brown curls were flying everywhere, lips were drawn thin, brows were furrowed, eyes were flashing. 

 

"Sher? Where are you going?" 

 

"Please don't contact me again." 

 

"What?  _Christ_ , what's wrong with you?" At that, Sherlock froze, intensity finally bubbling over into a loud outburst. Sherlock yelled out a few choice insults in frustration ( _Go to hell, you insufferable git. Fuck you, spineless moron._ ), and pounded the wall with his fist before collecting his coat with frightening violence. Instead of provide a verbal answer to John's specific question, he hurled the slippers from their place on the floor at the boy's face, a bit upset that the rugby player was able to block the blows. 

 

"Yes? Christmas present from my nan. What of them?" John looked like he was on the edge of tears; sleep was still in his eyes and he could tell that if Sherlock left now, he wasn't coming back. 

 

Sherlock, on the other hand, wilted like the violets his mum had left when he had moved in. _Christmas present_. _From nan_. He decided that it was exponentially more likely that this mysterious nan was John's grandmother than that she was a sexual partner… Excellent. He had clearly done some brilliant deductive work there. 

 

"But these slippers are for women," he accused, voice steady and cold. At that, John's face turned bright red and he ran a hand through his hair in embarrassment. 

 

"Just because they're red doesn't mean… I don't know… Did you think…?" Sherlock nodded, brushing away the bit of moisture that had gathered around his own eyes when he had thought he had been John's second exploit of the day prior. " _No._ God, no… I would never. I'm--I'm with… More of a… one person at a time kind of bloke."

 

"Right. I knew that." 

 

"Right… Yeah, I'm sure you did." A shudder ran through John's body and Sherlock plopped back down onto the bed without another word, wrapping his arms tightly around the form beside him. They sat in silence for a few minutes until Sherlock determined John was significantly calmer and that his own pulse had returned to normal. Thank _God_. 

 

"John, I… I love you." John forgot to breathe out of shock alone and his face grew even more flushed with happiness and inexplicable embarrassment. He had never heard those words from Sherlock before, and almost wished he had recorded them for later obsessing. Would he hear them more often now, or was it a one-time, Christmas miracle?

 

"Um… I love you too. I definitely love you too." Sherlock smiled, flipping himself onto John's body and leaning forward to give him a long, hot kiss. 

 

"Even though you wear women's slippers." 

 

"Oh, shush." 


	64. Winter Wonderland - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Today's prompt is Winter Wonderland! Yay!
> 
> (Anne's ficlets from yesterday and today will be late. Christmas is busy time.)

"Are you married?" the little girl asked. She had run to them on the prompting of her mother after she'd thrown a snowball that had hit Sherlock square in the back of his Belstaff. She had apologised as if in passing and then peppered them with questions. John had patiently answered each one and Sherlock had suspiciously answered a few.   
  
"Married?" Sherlock echoed. His eyes were scanning the winter landscape of the park they were strolling through.    
  
_Oh God, no. Don't scare him off,_ John thought. "No, no. We're not married. We just, uh, like each other very much."  
  
"Mum says when two people who like each other and hold hands and kiss, they should get married. Why don't you get married? Then you can have children," the girl said.  
  
"Children?" Sherlock echoed again. This time his eyes snapped to the little girl. John thought she must be made of tough stuff not to become scared by the look. She didn't even flinch.  
  
"Christ. Uh. Well. We should be off now, actually. Thank you for your apology and  you're forgiven. Just be a little bit more careful with your aim next time," John said. He tugged on Sherlock's hand to make him start walking again.  
  
The walk home was stilted and John felt awkward and so uncomfortable. He always had a feeling that Sherlock was one foot out the door because being in a relationship was so conventional and not nearly eccentric enough. John tried to keep it spicy and exciting, tried to keep some distance between them so he didn't become overwhelming or, worse, boring.   
  
"John," Sherlock said when they got home.   
  
John was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't hear him. He took off his coat and threw it over the back of his chair and sat down with a huff of breath.   
  
"John. You're being rude," Sherlock said.  
  
"What?" John said, waking out of his reverie with a quick turn of his head.   
  
"You're supposed to respond when people talk to you," Sherlock said with a rehearsed air. John had said it to him many times before.   
  
"Oh, sorry, did you say something?" John said.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged his coat off. He sat down opposite John and leaned forward. "Mm," he hummed thoughtfully as he templed his fingers and leaned his chin to the tips. "You haven't said a word since the park, nor have you listened to any of mine. That you were rude is beside the point. You're worried. I'm not _blind_ John. You think a little girl mentioning marriage and children will make me leave you. It's ridiculous. Where would I go? You are my friend. And you're a good shag."  
  
"A _good_ shag?" John said, displeased.  
  
"Fine. A spectacular shag. You are amazing. You are fantastic. And you're amazingly stupid if you think it hasn't crossed my mind," Sherlock said.  
  
"What?" John asked.  
  
"Marrying you. It's sensible. If I am hurt, I want you to have access to me and vice versa," Sherlock said.  
  
John's jaw dropped so far it might as well have clattered to the floor. "Marry me?" he asked in confusion. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.  
  
"Yes. I'll marry you. Thank you for asking," Sherlock said, a smug smile on his face.  
  
"I-" John said in even more confusion.  
  
"Shut up, John. You'll ruin it."


	65. Winter Wonderland - Golfechoromeo

__  
"You git," John said under his breath as he stormed down the abandoned road.  "You are so rude and arrogant and _selfish._ "  
  
Sherlock allowed John to walk ahead of him just slightly in order to give him some time to calm down.  He knew their situation wasn't ideal and that he was partially to blame, though John would say Sherlock was to blame entirely and completely.  But how was Sherlock to know that the cab driver _actually_ worked for the gang that they were trying to track down and would leave them deserted on the outskirts of London in the snow after destroying their phones?  
  
"Selfish?" Sherlock asked as he eliminated the distance and walked beside John.  "The rude and arrogant I accept and understand, but I'm not quite sure how 'selfish' applies to the current situation."  
  
This seemed to be the wrong thing to say in the given moment because John didn't even bother with words.  Instead, he shouted out in frustration and picked up the pace of his walk which Sherlock was easily able to match.   
  
"If you had _just_ fucking _asked_ Lestrade-"  
  
"I'm not asking Lestrade anything that is not necessity," Sherlock said, cutting John off.  "I had it under control."  
  
"Clearly," John spat.  "Because this is exactly where you planned on ending up, Sherlock.  This is _exactly_ what you anticipated.  The two of us having to fucking _walk_ back to London in the _snow_ without any way contact someone and have them pick us up.  Yes, you have this all under control."  
  
"You're unhappy with me," Sherlock said as he brushed the snow out of his hair.  The effort was futile as the snow continued to come down harder as they walked.   
  
"You're damn right I'm unhappy with you," John said, feeling the snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes as he blinked.  "It's your fault we're in this mess, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock wouldn't say anything.  He was wrong but he would never admit to it.  John's words echoed.  Rude.  Arrogant.  Selfish.  
  
"And fuck this snow," John grumbled as they walked.   
  
"You love the snow," Sherlock said quietly.  "Because it reminds you of your childhood.  I thought you would have liked walking in the snow because it brings back fond memories of when you and your father used to walk together after Christmas dinner."  
  
John stopped walking and looked at Sherlock.  "How could you possibly know about that?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "You mentioned it once."  
  


A silence fell between as the snow continued to swirl around them.  "You didn't plan all of this out so that we'd have to sodding walk back to London in a fucking winter wonderland, did you?"  The corner of John's lips hitched up in a reluctant smile.  

"Still think I'm selfish?" Sherlock asked, hoping that John never found out that he had _not_ planned it and that he actually had made an error that led them to this situation. 

"No," John said, taking a step closer to Sherlock as they walked.  "But I still think you're a git. A rude and arrogant git."


	66. Winter Wonderland - Anne

"Sherlock, come outside so I can throw a snowball at your face." 

"Um… no," the detective replied, continuing to peruse a newspaper with uncanny focus. 

 

"Come  _on_. You've been reading newspapers all day." At that, Sherlock looked up, if only so he could roll his eyes in John's direction. 

 

"Yes, John. I'm assuming you realize we're much too old to be playing with snow."

 

"Shut up, Sherlock. Christmas in London is a lot more slush and ice than snow. This is… this is beautiful. A regular winter wonderland." Sherlock rolled his eyes again and gave John an amused smirk, already very glad that he had invited the doctor to his parent's house for Christmas. He loved the old house and his old quarters, but he loved staying in his old bed a lot more with his boyfriend there. For a few obvious reasons, sex not the least of them. Even so, he couldn't relate to how excited John was at the idea of exploring the grounds of the estate in the snow. "Come  _on_ , Sher!" At that, John pulled Sherlock up from where he was sitting, and the detective groaned in annoyance. "We can go out in the snow for a while and then come back here and warm each other up, hm?" 

 

"You're bribing me with sex."

 

"Yes," John admitted with a cheeky grin, fully aware of the magnitude of his boyfriend's sexual appetite. Sherlock chuckled at that, jerking John into his arms and affectionately nibbling at his neck. 

 

"Mm, are you really going to throw a snowball at me?" he murmured seductively, running his tongue over John's bottom lip.

 

"Probably." Sherlock released John in a sudden motion and collapsed back down into his chair, laying out his body in a clearly suggestive manner. 

 

"Hard to believe you'd rather go out in the snow than have sex," he added with a sigh, running his fingers up the length of his leg and to his crotch. He picked up his newspaper once more when he was sure that he had John's attention, pretending to ignore him as he had been before.  

 

"What?" 

 

"Mummy's serving Christmas dinner at 6… We could spend the rest of our free time in the snow now, if you wanted. Or we could have sex." Sherlock's voice was disinterested and dismissive, but he knew that John could see right through his act. Luckily.

 

"Oh, right…" John swallowed thickly; his pulse was elevated and his eyes wandered over Sherlock's form at the very mention of sex. Snow or sex? Sherlock had been fairly clear about the situation. Tumbling around with Sherlock in the snow, or tumbling around with Sherlock in bed?  _Shit_. "Well, I know what your opinion is." 

 

Sherlock said nothing, only looked over the edge of his newspaper and gave John a winning smile. 

 

"And we really can't do both?" Sherlock shook his head definitively, making a mental note to take John out on the estate sometime the next day, potentially on horseback. They could play in the snow then if this particular encounter concluded as he assumed it would. 

 

"Mm, well, that's not a hard choice then," John concluded, giving into Sherlock's temptation with gusto. He worked himself between Sherlock's legs, plucking the offending newspaper from the detective's hands and tossing it to the floor. Sherlock hummed his approval, unbuttoning John's trousers and pushing them down to the other man's knees along with his pants. He began sucking the head of John's cock into his mouth as soon as it was exposed. John sucked in a deep breath, bringing a hand to Sherlock's head. 

 

"Christ, Sherlock…  _Fucking Christ_." Sherlock sucked harder when he heard his name, head bobbing with purpose as he took all of the length into his mouth. He pulled off, only to suck John's balls into his mouth. Within mere moments, the whole area was covered in spit, and John was panting with arousal.The detective half wondered if John's legs would give way underneath him if Sherlock made him come standing up like this. Could be an interesting experiment. However, in this particular case, Sherlock had mercy. 

 

"Bed?" 

 

"God, yes.  _Please_." 

 

"Snow tomorrow." 

 

"Hm?"

 

"Winter wonderland, remember?" 

 

"I don't care about the bloody snow. Let me shag you." Sherlock laughed contentedly at that, propelling himself onto the bed and pulling John along with him.


	67. Have Yourself a Merry Little Whiskey - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 23
> 
> Hello! Today's prompt is DOUBLE. We realised we had so many prompts left that we're going to do a double whammy and combine two at once in our ficlets for a few days. Today's are: You, me & Whiskey + Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

  
  
John had agreed to meet Sherlock at a hotel bar for a Christmas drink. They hadn't communicated that much since Sherlock had got back a few months earlier. John was too angry, too hurt and he couldn't accept that all the grieving he had been doing for two years had been for nothing.  
  
He arrived early and got a whiskey and a half in him before Sherlock strode in, his coat billowing behind him like a cape. John had thought of him as a superhero once. He had believed Sherlock could fix everything, figure everything out and save everyone. But where had he been when John needed saving? The happy golden days of yore were gone. He understood that Sherlock had 'committed suicide' to save him, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but the years after had made him question his own reasons for staying alive. He had muddled through somehow.  
  
Sherlock sat down and ordered them each a whiskey. John drank the rest of the one in front of him in one long gulp and nursed the next. They didn't speak a word for a quarter of an hour. Sherlock knew John was stewing and it would be unwise to wake the sleeping lion but after two years waiting, fifteen minutes seemed an awfully long time.  
  
"You're angry," he said.  
  
"Yes," John said.  
  
"I did it to save your life," Sherlock said.  
  
"I know," John said.  
  
Silence again. It dragged on an on through another order of whiskey. John appreciated the little cloud settling over his brain and his feelings, dulling the sharp edges.  
  
"You should have told me what was going on. You knew. You planned it. You _knew_ ," John said, the last word coming out in a snap.  
  
"There was nothing else I could do," Sherlock said. His face and voice were so devoid of emotion that John wanted to punch him. Again. He'd punched him when he had laid eyes on him again after two years.   
  
John's nostrils flared and he parted his lips as if to speak but he shut them again. He downed the rest of his whiskey and stood up abruptly, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. The muscles around his jaw worked as he glared down at Sherlock with more venom than Sherlock had ever seen before he turned and stormed off.   
  
Sherlock followed. What else could he do? Too much was riding on this going well. Much too much. When they got to the lobby, Sherlock grabbed John by his arm and pulled up into the elevator. 

The way he just blindly followed Sherlock's touch made him boil over. "What the _fuck_ do you think you are doing?" he shouted as elevator doors closed and it started ascending. 

 

"We are going to talk," Sherlock said, letting his cool gaze settle on John's enraged face.

"There is _nothing_ to talk about you colossal, arrogant _prick_ ," John shouted. He grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's neatly pressed suit and shoved him hard against the wall. Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily and the little show of emotion both pleased John and fuelled his anger even more. " _Prick_ ," he said again. "Why didn't you care what happened to _me?_ I would have gone with you. I would have jumped with you."

 

Sherlock closed his eyes for a few seconds. It hurt him because he could see right through John now. He hadn't been objective back then, but he was now. He could see the feelings they had for each other very clearly. 

 

"I missed you," he said, dropping his voice to a whisper.

The small muscles in John's forehead contracted and his grip on Sherlock's lapels tightened. "No," he said.

 

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispered. "I missed you." He steeled himself for what he was about to do and then leaned forward.

The kiss had much more of an effect than Sherlock would have ever thought. John's hands were immediately on him, pulling his suit jacket apart and pulling out his shirt from his trousers. There was so much tension in John that Sherlock's guilt for what he had done tripled.

 

They tumbled in to the hotel room Sherlock had booked and after giving each other a handjob amidst passionate kisses they lay side by side in the dark.

"I'm married," John whispered.

 

"I know," Sherlock said.

"We can't do this."

Silence.


	68. Have Yourself a Merry Little Whiskey - Golfechoromeo

The soldier sat at the empty bar, twirling his whiskey glass in his hand.  What number drink was this? His fourth? Fifth? Did it even matter after the first one?  _If only Harry could see me now_ , he thought bitterly to himself.  _What I've become._   He hadn't meant to turn to alcohol, but there had been nothing else.  There had been no one else.  


The bar was playing Christmas music which only served to deepen the sense of depression and loneliness that was settling over John Watson that night in a drunken haze.  As the merry sounds of 'Jingle Bells' came to a close, the slower and more somber opening notes of Judy Garland's 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' began to play.  

  
As she began to sing, John felt as though the world around him was starting to crumble.  How had he ended up here?  How had his life brought him to this point where he was sitting by himself on a bar on Christmas Eve, alone, finding himself, yet again, at the bottom of another empty whiskey glass.

  
The lyrics to the song were starting to bleed together as John lifted his glass in acknowledgement of wanting a refill.  The bartender nodded, but seemed a bit uneasy about giving John another glass. 

_Here we are as in olden days_  
Happy golden days of yore  
Faithful friends who are dear to us  
They gather near to us once more

John couldn't cry.  Not here.  Not now.  But where were his friends? 

Certainly not gathering near to him.  They were scattered.  His old uni friends wherever life had taken them (they had stopped writing letters to John within the first year of his deployment) and his comrades from the war were either still stationed there or were stationed nowhere. 

  
The bartender brought over a glass of water and John eyed him dubiously. 

"I think you've had enough of the whiskey tonight, lad," the man said.

John shook his head twice, but promptly ceased when there was an aching and the room started to go in and out of focus.  Maybe the bartender was right.  He reached out and took the water and brought it to his lips, trying his best to ignore the tremor in his hand. 

  
"You alright, mate?" the bartender asked.  "You look a bit young to be relying so heavily on that whiskey."

John was about to tell the bartender to sod off and mind his own business when someone did it for him. 

  
"Now now, Robert," a man said, walking into the bar.  "Can't you see this brave soldier has been through more than you have?  And should he choose to drown his sorrows in whiskey, do give him the good stuff."

  
John turned to see who his saving grace had been and felt his jaw drop as he stared at the most gorgeous face he had ever laid his eyes upon.  But it was fuzzy around the edges.  _Fucking whiskey_ , he thought angrily.  

  
"I'm fine with water," John said, focusing on making each words enunciated and not slurred together in a single stream.  He couldn't continue to drink if he were going to continue to look at that face.  John needed to see it in full clarity.  The face deserved to be seen in full clarity and John was doing it a disservice and showing the utmost disrespect by having the alcohol in his system tamper with it. 

  
The man sat on the stool beside John and, without saying a word, the bartender brought over a glass of a dark liquid and smelled delicious and probably cost more money than John had to his name based on how impeccably dressed he was. 

  
"How did you know?" John asked. 

"Hm?" the man mumbled as he took a sip of his drink.

"The war," John said, blinking a few times to try and keep the face in focus.  "How did you know I was a soldier?"

  
The man smirked.  "I didn't know.  I saw."  He looked John over with his eyes and even through the cloud of alcohol, John felt as though he were exposed, sitting naked in front of this man who could read his every thought and memory.  "What else do you want to hear?  About how you were invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq within the past month or how you're here because you'd rather be alone than with your disappointing family and friends?"

  
John smiled despite himself.  "That's fantastic," he said, in awe of this stranger.

Another smile graced the man's face and John felt his heart warm towards him.  "Do you think so?"

  
John nodded and winced as his head ached again. 

"Have more water," the man said.  "Where are you staying if not with your family?  Do take your time answering.  I don't want you passing out or vomiting all over Robert's bar."

With a nod, John took another sip of water and collected his thoughts.  "Was going to find a... place to sleep," John admitted, hating that he was going to try and go home with someone, man or woman, he didn't care.  He felt guilty telling this stranger this, but was unsure why. 

  
"I see," Sherlock said, with an inclination of the head.  "Perhaps I can be of assistance there, but only when you've sobered enough to make a decision that you will not regret come Christmas morning."

John arched an eyebrow, hardly daring to believe his luck.  "I don't even know your name," he said with a goofy grin spreading across his face. 

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said, being quite forward and lifting John's glass to his lips and taking a sip of his water.  Apparently, he was opting out of his own whiskey to become sober with John. 

"John Watson," John replied, feeling more drawn to this man by the second. 

"So, John, tell me about yourself.  Something I can't tell by just looking at you,"  Sherlock said, eying John in such a way that made is heart race in his chest.  

"Alright," John said, smiling warmly and shifting closer to Sherlock.  The closing lyrics to the song fading in the background as John began to talk.   
  
_Through the years we all will be together_  
If the fates allow  
Hang a shining star upon the highest bow,  
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.


	69. Have Yourself a Merry Little Whiskey - Anne

 

Sherlock hadn't meant to get intoxicated at the Orchestra Christmas party, held approximately two days before most of the students were scheduled to return home to their families. He hadn't meant to go to the damn party, but he  _was_ first violin and it  _did_ give him an excellent opportunity to invite John out with him.   _You, me, and whiskey. John, it will be enjoyable._

 

Of course, now he didn't know where the other boy was. Music was pounding, and the party had taken over two rooms in addition to where the drinks were sitting on someone's desk, as well as the entirety of the floor lounge. It seemed as if every surface was covered with red cups and/or drunk university students holding them. 

 

Sherlock struggled to get his bearings, realizing that he could actually feel the floor moving under his feet when he stood up. John. He had to find John. If he took any more shots, he would throw up, and he was wobbly and tired enough that passing out was also a possibility. Not good. Bloody not good. 

 

He didn't think he had a problem with alcohol… Sherlock realized his effects must have something to do with the cocaine he had snorted in the bathroom with a very attractive cellist just less than an hour prior. Then again, maybe not. Sherlock hadn't had that much of it, and he was already building a resistance from his past three months of drug use. Getting drunk had been an afterthought. The drinks slipped down so easily. He couldn't help himself. 

 

John. Where was John? He needed John to take him home. Sherlock was nauseous and tired and his vision was rapidly changing from being very focused to being completely blurry. Yet, he still managed to find his friend, unobtrusively holding a beer in the corner of the room and chatting up an attractive girl. 

 

"John. There you are. Lovely party, lovely party. Ready to go? Going to take me home?" John's eyes widened with shock and concern upon seeing him, although Sherlock didn't know why. True, he was stumbling a bit, but he had managed to make his way over at least. 

 

"Sherlock?  _Jesus_. You okay? Sit down, you idiot. You are pissed." 

 

"Pissed and _high_ ," Sherlock corrected, falling to the ground and leaning against the wall to prop himself up. "Might be sick. Tired. Dizzy. Excellent party."

 

"High?" Guilt wracked his body when John's face came into focus; his best friend was heartbroken to say the very least.

 

"Excuse us," he mumbled, dropping down to his knees before the violinist. "What did you take? Sherlock?  _Sherlock_."

 

"Hm… Cocaine. Very nice. Really helps me…. think. Yes, that."

 

"We're leaving."

 

"Mm, going to take me back to your place?" Sherlock asked suggestively, smirking up at John with a slightly malicious look. "Eager to have your way with me?"

 

"God, of course not. I mean… yes. I am taking you to my place so I can look after you. Not the second thing."

 

"Mm, I see. One moment." Sherlock grabbed an abandoned red cup from the floor and preceded to throw up into it, setting it aside when he was done and wiping off his mouth. John winced and grew very pale; he looked as if he had seen a ghost. "You could definitely have your way with me, if you wanted. It's obvious you want to."

 

"I do _not_ want to have my way with you! In fact, I'm tempted to go home and bloody leave you here. You're being a fucking moron! I can't believe you would-- you know what, never mind." To Sherlock's surprise, John threw a hand to his face and began shaking slightly as angry tears tried to get the better of his control.

 

"Right. Whatever. This always happens. I'm fine," Sherlock assured, trying to make his gaze as sober-looking as possible. 

 

"Always-- Always happens?" John collected his friend from the floor without another word and just barely managed to help him to the elevator so they could go up two more floors to his room, where he settled the mess of his friend on the bed. He made sure Sherlock was on his side, changed out of his own clothes, and then joined Sherlock tentatively. Maybe he shouldn't sleep beside Sherlock when he was this angry.

 

"I can't believe you could be so selfish. I knew you were self destructive, but this?  _Fuck_ , Sherlock."

 

"Selfish? If I choose to self destruct, as you so eloquently put it, that is my business. Doesn't affect anyone but me."

 

"Oh, yeah? What about the people who love you?"

 

"I don't have any of those." John's face turned bright red with anger and he shot up in the bed, throwing sheets aside as he did so. He was too hot. He needed to fucking cool off a bit, but Sherlock was making it difficult. 

 

"What about me?" Sherlock had to think about that one, and John could swear he saw a modicum of guilt in his best friend's eyes. 

 

"Doesn't that make you the selfish one?" he finally asked, clearly pleased with his brilliance. 

 

"Yeah. A bit. Don't want to have to bury my best mate before he's even finished his second year. Sherlock, listen to me. If you keep taking cocaine, and spending nights like this for that matter, you will die. And I… Well, that would be…" A few more tears slid down John's cheeks and Sherlock clumsily pulled him close in response. 

 

"Okay. I'm done," Sherlock finally said in a low voice, clearly defeated before the sudden bursts of emotion. John looked up at him suspiciously, wary eyes speaking wordlessly of a past that they hadn't talked about. "John, I'm serious. By next year, everything will be different. All this trouble will be far away. Until then… Well, we'll make it through. You have my word. Consider it my Christmas gift to you."

 

"Um… Alright. Thank you." John swallowed thickly and wiped his tears away with his arm. Then, without another word, he pushed sweaty curls back off of Sherlock's face and pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead, hoping the feeling of not-dead skin would ward off the remaining terrors of his imagination.


	70. I don't want to go to Mycroft's party/Chocolate Santa - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Much guilt for being late again. I had muches Christmassing yesterday and so did my comrades. 
> 
> The prompts today are: "But I don't want to go to Mycroft's party" + Chocolate Santa.

Sherlock sat eating his third chocolate Santa. John had bought him five to try to bribe him to go to Mycroft's Christmas party. John didn't know it yet, but the attempt was going to be unsuccessful. 

"We won't stay long. Just enough to have Mycroft see us there and to try out some of the food," John said.

Sherlock didn't respond. As glad as he was that John's PTSD-related issues with food had worked themselves out, he wasn't prepared to sink as low as to visit Mycroft to nourish John. They could have a take-away. Or Mrs. Hudson could cook for them. Or John could eat a sandwich (although when he thought about it, he had used the bread for an experiment John wasn't to know about concerning how fast an infestation of cockroaches would happen in 221c if there was a source of food on just one sole occasion.

"I'm a little annoyed I have to wear this tie though, but I suppose that's Mycroft for you. Proper. Traditional Stick up his arse," John said. He was standing by the mirror above the fireplace trying to straighten the damn thing.

"If you don't go then you can take it off," Sherlock noted.

"Yeah, but who would look after you and make sure you didn't start a civil war with him?" John said, turning to give Sherlock a look that simply said 'I know exactly what you're like'.

"It's much too late to stop that from happening, John. I hate Mycroft and his pompous affairs. And I do mean _affairs_ ," Sherlock said.

John wrinkled his nose and shook his head violently. "No. No, don't tell me anymore of that, please," he said.

"There'll be at least two women there who he's slept with and that minister that he had an 'adventure' with when he was at university. A _male_ minister." Sherlock said the last three words with so much gleeful smugness that he John couldn't help but to laugh at the charm of it which, of course, made Sherlock even more smug.

"I really don't want to hear anymore, Sherlock. I have to look him in the eye," John said.

"You're not a very good actor, no. And Mycroft is moderately clever and so he'd know you knew. And then he would be insufferable to you," Sherlock said. He tightened the muscles around his eyes for a moment. "Consider it my Christmas present to you that I won't tell you anymore details."

John laughed. "Well, that is a _huge_ improvement from my birthday present."

Sherlock had the decency to look a little ashamed of himself. "I misjudged it," he said. "I see now that perhaps an essay about how your friends hate you wasn't the kindest gift to give."

"No. No, it really wasn't," John said, still laughing.

"I don't hate you, though," Sherlock said.

John's fingers paused for a second before they started working again. "No?" he asked as casually as he could.

"Obviously not. I'm not your friend," Sherlock said.

John's face darkened. _Not this again. Not at fucking Christmas_ , he thought.

"No, I'm your _flatmate_. Infinitely better. I see you every day and I'm delightful to you not only because you have a birthday," Sherlock said.

The look in John's eyes softened.

"I don't want to go to Mycroft's party, John," Sherlock said.

John drew in a breath. "Well, sod it then," he said, tearing off his tie and dropping it on the floor. "We'll stay in. Give me one of your chocolate Santas."

"No."


	71. I don't want to go to Mycroft's party/Chocolate Santa - Golfechoromeo

"John, we _have_ to go!" Sherlock said excitedly, pulling a Santa hat over his best friend's blonde hair.  He was proud that even though John was eleven and three years older than Sherlock was, at age eight, he was just a bit taller.  It made it easier to do things like this to John, despite his objections.   
  
"But I don't want to go to Mycroft's party," John said, pouting his lower lip out like Sherlock had taught him to.  
  
Sherlock beamed at the way John's lip protruded, but it wasn't going to help John get his way.  "John, it's a party for _big_ kids," he said, his eyes alight.  "And we weren't invited to it.  Why _wouldn't_ we want to go?"  
  
"Because we weren't invited," John said, as though Sherlock could not hear the obviousness of what he was saying.  Sometimes Sherlock could be so silly like that, but that's why he had John, to help him.  
  
"Yes, but this is a _teenage_ party," Sherlock said.  "A teenage _Christmas_ party.  Mycroft is going to have things that we aren't allowed to do!  So come on! Let's go sneak downstairs and see!"   
  
"Fine," John said, unable to keep from feeling excitement.  He smiled up at Sherlock.  He would follow his friend to the ends of the world, which could very well be what could happen when Mycroft caught them sneaking into the party.  "I hope we're able to blend in somehow," John said as they made their way down the enormous staircase of the Holmes manor. 

"Impossible," Sherlock said happily.  "It will only make him angrier that we're there!  And his friends will try and kick us out but we won't go because this is my house too and there's nothing Mycroft can say to get rid of me."

 

"You're amazing," John said, in awe of his best friend.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said happily, loving the praise John always gave him. 

They made it to the door of the parlour and Sherlock and John exchanged a look of giddy mischievousness before Sherlock abandoned all pretense of being quiet and sneaky and threw the door open, bursting in.  They had expected a room full of teenagers talking, laughing, eating, and exchanging Christmas pleasantries.  What they found was Mycroft sitting alone in his father's armchair, staring blindly into the fire.  He barely turned when the door opened. 

 

"Leave me alone," he said miserably. 

The room had been impeccably decorated with fake snow and red and green streamers and tinsel hanging all over.  Mycroft must have gone through quite a lot to put them up in such a meticulous manner.  And all for nothing.  No one had shown up. 

Sherlock and John looked at each other feeling very uncomfortable and sorry for Mycroft.  They had a best friend in each other and they realised that Mycroft had no one. 

There were many reasons why Sherlock and Mycroft did not get along.  The seven year age difference between them certainly did not help.  But Sherlock imagined what he would have felt like had this happened to him and had not even John shown up.  He pitied his brother.  He felt an unfamiliar feeling inside of him and after a few moments, he realised what it was. 

Sherlock wanted to make Mycroft feel better. 

That was new.

Moving forward slowly, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the small chocolate Santa John had given to him that afternoon when he had come over.  He placed it softly on the table next to the chair Mycroft was sitting in before leaving the room with John. 

The two Holmes boys never talked about what happened.  They never acknowledged it.  But every year for Christmas, Mycroft would always give Sherlock, in addition to his gift, a large bag of chocolate Santas.


	72. I don't want to go to Mycroft's party/Chocolate Santa - Anne

"But,  _John_. I don't want to go to Mycroft's insidious holiday affair. It will be boring and painful. Mycroft will be in his most conservative suit, prepared to eat his own weight in turkey, and with a beautiful woman on his arm even though it's obvious he's currently shagging Lestrade. Terrible waste of time." 

 

"What? Your brother's with--" John stuttered, trying to picture the coupling Sherlock was alluding to and shuddering at the incomprehensibility. He just wouldn't think about it. 

 

"Obviously." When John saw the conversation wasn't going anywhere, he tried again, doing his best to be very firm. 

 

"You have to go Sherlock. Did you get Mycroft a present?" 

 

"I'm not getting him anything," the detective immediately barked, crossing his arms defensively. 

 

"Knowing him, he has most certainly gotten you something very nice and is liable to announce it in a very public way, so unless you want to look like an ungrateful moron, you'd best present him with a gift as well." 

 

"Anything I want?" Sherlock asked hopefully, eyes lighting up.

 

"Yes, of course.  _Wait_ , no. Not at all. Not anything you want." John paused, feeling as if he had dodged a bullet with that one. "Why? Do you have something in mind?"

 

"Yes, yes. I'll buy it while you're getting ready."

 

"Sherlock," John warned, meeting Sherlock's eyes with a parental authority that demanded a response. 

 

"It's nothing particularly dangerous, unconventional, or inappropriate," Sherlock added, addressing the adjectives John most often used to describe Sherlock's gifts, attitudes, and interactions with others. "You will be my escort for this event. Take off that… thing, and put on a suit and tie."

 

"It's a holiday jumper, Sherlock. A holiday jumper."

 

"Right. You'd better be ready by the time I return." 

 

Approximately an hour later, John (donning his most expensive suit and tie) was shoving Sherlock through Mycroft's door, a suspiciously heavy gift roughly the size of a dog balancing in his arms. Once he had deposited it to the servant waiting on the arriving guests, John stayed stuck securely at Sherlock's side. He needed support in this strange world as well as the assurance that he would not ruin Britain's relations with a small, but important, country by getting in an argument over the tasteful cheese plate, complete with two types of pate and three types of caviar. 

 

Despite Sherlock's coldness and lack of manners, he commanded a great deal of respect and clearly fit in with these people in a way that John never would. In fact, Sherlock was treated like the damn prodigal son for his eccentricity. Even so, John was surprised by how well Sherlock was behaving. He accepted a rather expensive bottle of scotch from his brother, along with ownership to one of their childhood summer homes (in France, apparently), with a wide smile. The acerbic detective even stood up to give his brother a hug. Either John's bloody flatmate was on drugs, the Christmas spirit was finally getting to him, or he was waiting to do something very naughty. Which admittedly made John very nervous. As far as he knew, Mycroft believed in capital punishment. 

 

Along with John's anxiety was a familiar sense of awe. Sherlock was a different creature when he was among these distinguished people. Demanding and rude, but in a way that was unspeakably charming. The soldier only had a single moment of fear when a portly man with a bushy orange beard asked his companion a complicated question about his thoughts on the current state of the British government. However, Sherlock didn't seem taken aback. In fact, he answered the question with a few vague words, earning a loud guffaw from his inquisitor and a slap on the back. 

 

"You Holmes boys certainly have a knack for politics. Maybe you and Mycroft should both run for public office." The man lumbered away before Sherlock could open his mouth again, and while the detective seriously considered tapping the large man on the shoulder to correct him with a few harsh quips, the mirth in John's eyes at the whole situation stopped him in his tracks and induced a smile instead. 

 

"Sherlock, did you have any idea what he was talking about?"

 

"Not in the slightest." They both burst into laughter, John leaning lightly on Sherlock for support. "I have-- I have a few-- memorized lines," Sherlock managed to get out through his laughing, revealing one of his secrets quite willingly to the man clinging to his shoulder. The memorized lines had been for when he was a child, as his father had really liked to show them off, but Sherlock had figured out many Christmas parties ago that they still worked with the same success regardless of the passing years. Typical. 

 

Sherlock presented Mycroft with his gift next, eyes twinkling in a mischievous way that John was a bit frightened of, but there wasn't exactly anything he could do now to minimize the damage at this point, was there? 

 

John gnawed at one of his fingernails as the wrapping paper fell away, mouth dropping open when he saw the contents of the box. Sherlock Holmes had generously gifted his brother a giant chocolate santa. The soldier estimated that the chocolate was nearly a meter in height at least and about half as wide. Impressive. Sherlock had found an excellent way to insult Mycroft without getting into trouble. 

 

"Solid Swedish chocolate, brother dear. I do hope you enjoy." Everyone present clapped, and Mycroft nodded curtly, signaling to one of his footmen that the garish gift should be taken into the kitchen immediately, whilst Sherlock whisked John away by the waist. 

 

"I think it's time for us to depart, don't you?" he whispered into John's ear as they headed through a throng of people for the front door.

 

"Greg's going to have to fuck him very well after that," Sherlock tittered in response, leaning his head down to peck John's cheek affectionately in a way that made the soldier freeze up a bit and clear his throat. That's what he got for standing so close, he supposed. If John didn't know better, he would think Sherlock fancied him. 

 

Which was why he quite literally stopped the detective in the middle of a group of French dignitaries to snog him passionately, one hand on Sherlock's upper arm to hold the other man into place. Just to check, of course. There was nothing wrong with doing some experimenting of his own. 

 

When John felt Sherlock's tongue working it's way into his mouth, he realized that his suspicions were most definitely correct. "You did take the scotch with you, didn't you?" he asked breathlessly when the kiss broke. "I think we should have a night in."

 

"Yes, yes. Merry Christmas, John."


End file.
